Chapter Forty-Nine Rae
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Rae
IT’S A VIbrATOR. REMOTE-CONTROLLED, of course, and, according to the instructions and the app I’ve downloaded, it works from anywhere in the world.
Do I plan to wear it to the Paint and Sip session with my sisters? Hell no.
But then he texts me, right as I’m leaving.
Grant: Wear it, Sunny. I’m counting on you.
Dammit.
I send back a selfie of myself sticking out my tongue and, after a moment’s consideration, head back into the bathroom.
I switch the thing on, sync it with my phone before putting it in my panties, and use the magnet on the outside of my underwear to hold it in place.
Oh, wow. Okay. This is not going to be easy.
Grant: Show me.
Feeling feisty, I take a quick full-length snap of myself, fully dressed.
Grant: Sunny.
Me: I guess you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?
Grant: Fine. Who’s driving tonight?
Me: We all are.
Grant: Take a rideshare. Please. On me.
I sigh, halfway to my car, and call him. “I’m driving.”
“I’d rather you not.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t up to you.”
“Sunny…”
“I’m late, Grant. And a rideshare will just make me later.”
“Fine. But call me when you’re done. Please.”
“You’re being awfully bossy for someone I’m not in a relationship with.”
“You’re my sub.”
I sigh.
“I’m a protective bastard, okay?”
“I’m getting that. But it’s Paint and Sip, not a dive bar.”
“Please?”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll call.”
“Thank you. Have fun.”
“Bye.” I hang up and race off to meet my sisters.
An hour later, halfway through our wine flight and elbows deep in a floral still life that is pretty cute, if I do say so myself, I feel a tickle between my legs.
Oh, crap.
I glance up to where Otty’s got her tongue out as she taps brush to canvas, easel dancing with each pointillist strike.
Beside me, Hannah’s given up on the painting entirely.
She and half a dozen women—and one man—of varying ages, including our instructor, Jazz, are recounting their birth experiences.
I tuned out when they started getting into the nitty-gritty of afterbirth.
Another vibration, this one stronger, has me curling in on myself. Checking to make sure no one’s looking, I put my brush down and pull out my phone to see a message notification.
Grant: One.
Oh my god.
Me: This isn’t fair.
Grant: Are you safe-wording?
A look around shows absolutely no one paying the slightest bit of attention to me.
Me: Green
The second I hit Send, it buzzes again.
“Nice, Amy!” Jazz calls from the other side of the room. “The shapes are really gaining dimension with that shadowing there.”
Me: Let me go to the restroom at least.
Grant: Stay where you are, Sunny. And be very, very quiet.
My mouth drops open at the next vibration, and I take a frantic look around. Can they hear the slight buzz?
The music’s loud, so maybe not. And Hannah too, with her raucous wine laugh and that stage voice. Another longer, harder vibe and all I do is turn to my canvas, shut my eyes, and take it.
I collapse back onto my stool and pant, much the way Hannah’s new friend is panting through a description of her wife’s twenty-four-hour home birth marathon.
I block them out, pick up my brush, and focus on the feeling.
Oh, oh, it’s good. Uncomfortable, strange, and also really, really hot, but oh my god, if he doesn’t stop soon, I’m going… to…
My hand squeezes the brush, my eyes shut hard, every muscle tightens up, and I climax.
Wow. Wow. Wow.
I scrabble for my phone, tap out a message, and collapse back into my seat, relieved when the vibe stops.
“Interesting choice, Rae,” Jazz says over my shoulder.
“Wha…?” I jump, blinking at the thick, black slash of paint bisecting my canvas from left to right. “Oh.”
“Truly exceptional, actually.” She turns. “Y’all should come see this. Rae has pushed limits here, folks. She’s working with style and composition in a way I rarely see in these classes.”
“So avant-garde,” comes a voice from beside me.
I give the woman a weak smile.
“What made you think of that?”
“Oh, Rae’s always been the artist,” says Otty, nodding sagely from where she’s sidled up beside me.
“So talented,” says someone else.
“So realistic and then… slash.”
“I know, right?”
“Jealous, girl.”
The buzzing starts up again.
“You should see her book nooks.”
“What’s that?”
“Show Jenny,” says Hannah.
“I… I…”
“Here. Give me your phone.”
“No.” I hug the phone to me as the next round of forced pleasure ramps up between my thighs.
“What? Come on. Don’t be embarrassed. They’re pure genius.”
“Oh my god,” Otty adds. “The one she’s doing right now?”
“The Carytown one?” I ask.
“What Carytown one?”
“Nothing, it’s just…” I look around at the expectant faces, wheezing like I’m running for my life while Grant’s off somewhere, like some diabolical Wizard of Oz, turning this moment into something it really, really wasn’t meant to be, and I am about to…
“Gotta pee,” I half shout as I race for the restroom.
Door shut and locked, and there’s just enough time to collapse against it, and, oh, oh, there it is.
My mind goes blank as pleasure starts between my legs and radiates out to my fingers and toes.
Just as I start to come down from what might be the biggest orgasm of my life, the vibe starts up again, and… Oh god. Oh god. It’s too much. Too big.
Holy. Shit.
I squint at the phone and wildly type a text.
Me: Two. You have stop. They want phone. Can’t. Can’t do more
Another whoosh of warmth makes me collapse onto the closed toilet seat, phone forgotten on my lap while I writhe.
Finally, the buzzing stops.
Panting, I pick up my phone.
Grant: They?
Me: Sisters. Need phone. Photos.
I shut my eyes, gasping for breath, half laughing at what I’ve just done.
What we’ve done. How on earth did I come so hard here, of all places?
It had to be the slow build, the way I’ve had to hold it in and hide it from everyone out there.
The secretiveness to this orgasm somehow magnified my body’s reactions, until…
Me: Wow.
Grant: You okay?
Me: That last one makes three.
Grant: I’ll bet you’ve got one more in you.
A knock at the door.
I type out a quick thumbs-down, exit the messages app, and say a nonchalant, “Be right out,” tucking my phone into my bra.
“Beanie? You all right?”
“Fine. Fine.” I fish the vibrator out of my underwear and, with nowhere else to put it, shove it into my other bra cup. The darn thing’s starting to weigh me down.
“Sorry if we pressured you.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“No. No, I’m fine.” I run water over my face, step back, and stare into the mirror. Pink cheeks, eyes at half-mast, lips trembling.
“We didn’t mean to, Beanie,” Otty slurs. Definitely drunk.
I look at my hand. Shaking.
Okay. Calm. Deep breath.
“You guys. I’m fine. You didn’t pressure. I’m good.”
“We love you, you know,” says Hannah. Also drunk.
“I love you too.”
“We know it’s hard for you to share your book nooks. We just want the world to see your talent.”
I sigh. “I know. And I love you for it.”
“Need a huggle?” Otty asks.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Hey, I want a huggle!” says Hannah.
What can I say? A huggle request, in our family, is a call that cannot be denied. So, with one last inhale, I pat my face dry, open the door, and accept the big fat group hug from my sisters.
The problem is when the buzzing starts up in my bra.
“Wha’s tha’?” Otty says against the top of my head.
“Sorry. Work thing.”
“Work?” Hannah steps back. “In your boob?”
“Just hold on.” Turning, with my sisters hovering behind me, I scrabble to grab my phone. If I pull the vibe out now, I will be oh, so busted.
The buzzing ramps up. My sisters crowd me.
I hunch over, typing frantically.
Me: No more. Done. Over. Red. Red. Red.
Immediately, the buzzing stops.
“Who’s texting? Is that Dorothy?” asks Hannah.
“New mean boss guy?”
“No. No, it’s…” I read the text chain and see that instead of the thumbs-down I’d intended to send Grant from my perch on the toilet seat, my fingers had accidentally done a thumbs-up.
Grant: You okay?
Me: Yes. Yes. Sisters. Gotta go.
Grant: Got it, sweetheart. Have fun. I’ll leave you alone.
“It’s a retreat thing.”
“I want to go on your retreat,” says Otty.
Hannah says, “We should do a family retreat.”
I nod and smile, returning my phone to my bra as I lead the way back to the main room. I transfer both electronic devices to my bag the second no one’s looking and take a long sip of wine before returning to my painting.
At the end of the night, woozy from too much wine and way too many orgasms, not to mention my first nonfamily book-nook commission—scary, but yay! I did it!—I stumble out onto the sidewalk with my sisters. We take out our phones only to discover that there’s not a rideshare to be found.
“There was a basketball game tonight.”
“No way,” I say, staring down at the hour-long wait. “I can’t drive like this.”
“Uh-uh,” Otty says, shaking her head. “Not safe.”
My phone buzzes with a new text.
Grant: Everything okay? You have fun?
Me: Yes. But a game just got out. Can’t find a ride.
Grant: You’re at the Paint and Sip? Downtown?
Me: Ya.
Grant: Be right there.