Chapter 8 #2
Uh, like it was fucking two hours ago. That night plays in my head every time I shut my eyes for bed. I think about it. Dream about it. Wish about it. That night fucking haunts me.
“Uh, yeah. I believe so,” I say casually.
“You seemed different from how you are now. Like the confidence I was talking about.”
That’s because my dick didn’t have a muzzle on it like it does now.
“Oh, really?” I laugh nervously. “Well, you know, people change.”
“They do, but I think it’s something else. Are you scared of me?”
“Ha!” I bellow. “You? Scared of you?” I shake my head. “No, no, no. Nope. Not scared of you. Not even a little. Definitely not scared. Nope. No scaries over here.”
Now, am I scared of your father?
Yes.
My nipples have inverted just thinking about him seeing us like this side by side on my couch, and nothing is even happening. Well, besides my growing affection for this woman. Oh, did I say affection? I meant erection.
My growing erection.
“Hmm, but you’re so jumpy. Is there anything that I’m doing to make you so jumpy?”
She squeezes in closer, her breast rubbing up against my arm, the distinctive feel of her hard nipple right there on my bicep, poking my sensitive skin.
The smell of her shampoo combined with the scent of my masculine soap has my head swirling with debauchery, and when her hand lands on my thigh with concern, I feel the telltale sign of my dick press against the fabric of my pants.
Alert. Alert.
Warning. Warning.
Bad thoughts are occurring.
Sexual thoughts.
Aching urges are taking over.
Hands are ready to cup breasts.
The mouth is ready to suckle.
The dick is ready to pulse between her legs . . .
Posey, you’re going to do something bad if you don’t remove yourself right this instant.
Out of self-preservation, I fly off the couch, letting her fall into the spot I was just occupying as I shout, “Bologna.”
“Huh?” she asks, sitting back.
“B-bologna.” I keep my hands placed in front of my aching cock to block her view of my obvious bulge. “Did you, uh, did you get me bologna? At the store. Did you secure the bologna?”
“Um, yes,” she says with a quizzical tone. “The bologna has been secured.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s important. The bologna is important, Wylie.”
Her brow pinches together. “Yes, I’m sure. The bologna has been purchased and properly placed in the fridge.” She studies me for a moment. “Is everything okay, Levi?”
No.
Everything is not okay.
I have a raging hard-on, I’m fumbling around like a jackass, and I’m pretty sure tonight I’m going to whimper myself to sleep from the thought of the tip of your nipple on the sensitive flesh of my bulging bicep.
But instead of vocalizing my innermost thoughts, I nod.
“Just love bologna is all, and someone has been eating my bologna at the arena, so I want to make sure I have some on hand because I like to eat a sandwich before every game. Kind of a tradition, and I really like the way it tastes, makes me feel like I’m gearing up for a takedown.
Like a beast. A man beast. A man beast on the ice.
That should be my new hashtag.” I nervously laugh.
“Man beast on the ice, powered by bologna. And without that bologna, I’m no good.
Just wreckage out there with no purpose.
Garbage. Trash. Some might say an abomination in skates.
So I just want to make sure the bologna is there.
So I can be the best man bologna beast out there, you know?
” I nervously laugh again, and it comes out more like a giggle which, in return, makes me want to take my own skate to my dick.
“Bologna makes you feel manly?” she asks almost with a sneer.
“Very,” I say. “Like I have a lot of muscles. And with great muscles comes great responsibility, Wylie.”
What the fuck am I saying?
Just shut the fuck up, man.
“Hmm, I wouldn’t have put you in the category of being built on bologna, but okay. And also, your bologna at the arena, the one in the cafeteria? That was yours?”
What the hell does she mean . . . that was yours?
My heart’s beating wildly as I stare down at her. “What do you mean when you ask, that was yours?”
She crosses one beautiful leg over the other and casually says, “Well, I saw it in the cafeteria, and I thought it was up for grabs. I made myself a few sandwiches. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was yours.”
The world stands still as I blink a few times, my brain catching up with her words, processing them, sitting deep in the wrinkles of my cranium, stirring and festering . . . and dipping me right into a frenzied tailspin as my ears boil and my pulse pounds through my veins.
She can’t be . . .
No.
There’s no fucking way.
“Hold on . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t come out shaky. “You . . . you like bologna sandwiches?”
“Love them,” she answers with a smile.
Mother.
Of.
Fuck.
This is the worst-case scenario out of all scenarios.
This . . . this is blasphemy.
This is bullshit.
This can’t be the world I’m living in.
No, this is a nightmare. Someone punch me. Poke me. Stick a chopstick right up my dick hole.
Pull me away from this disaster I’m living because, oh my fucking God, the girl of my absolute dreams, the one that’s been persistent in my mind for a year, the girl who could do no wrong, she likes bologna.
No, not like . . . loves.
LOVES!
Actual tears spring to my eyes as panic races through me.
I’m going to lose it. I have two choices, ask her to open her mouth so I can fuck it, right here, right now—possibly while she eats a bologna sandwich—or just run.
Run as far away as I can run.
I choose the latter.
“Excuse me,” I say as I bow my head in dismissal and sprint down the hallway straight to my bedroom, where I slam the door and fling myself onto the bed.
I grab my pillow, bury my head against it, and scream again, muffling myself better this time.
After a few kicks to the mattress, punches, and “why mes,” I snatch my phone from the nightstand and pull up a text thread.
Can’t do this alone. Nope.
Need help.
Now.
Because . . . fuck me, she likes bologna.
She loves it.
I’ve never met another soul who likes bologna. And lo and behold, the woman of my dreams has been stealing my goddamn deli meat right from under me. How did I not know? How did I not see her? How did I not sniff out the evidence like a goddamn bloodhound searching the trail?
I’ve lost my touch.
A curvy woman with red hair has blinded me.
And now, with my dick standing at full mast, I realize one thing. There is no way in hell I’m going to make it through this assignment without reinforcements.
It pains me, but I need help.
Levi: URGENT. CODE RED. DEFCON 1. PLEASE JESUS, HELP ME! I don’t care what you’re doing, drop everything and meet me at Café Peppermint in fifteen minutes. Drinks and snacks are on me. Tell NO ONE!
I set my phone down and take a few deep breaths as my cock strains against my pants.
Whispering meadows.
Babbling brooks.
Woodland creatures.
Deep breaths . . . that’s it.
Fluttering branches.
Cotton-candy skies.
Wylie eating bologna.
No. No. No.
Focus.
Bunny with cotton tail.
Wild berries in brilliant hues of red.
Singsonging birds with white chests.
Chests . . .
Tits.
Wylie’s tits bouncing.
NO!
No bouncing tits in the meadow.
Tits not allowed.
Or nipples.
Or any breasts.
Just woodland creatures that talk and sing little ditties like . . . we are the woodland creatures of whispering pines . We like to sing and dance to help the boner decline . . .
“We are the woodland creatures?—”
Knock. Knock.
I shoot up off my bed as Wylie says, “Uh, everything okay in here?”
“Peachy!” I squeak out. “Grand. On the up and up. No help needed.”
“Are you sure? Because it seems like something’s bothering you.”
You!
You are bothering me, you beautiful, magnificent, bologna-eating wench.
“Nope. Everything is wonderful. Loving life.” I offer her a thumbs-up even though I’m pretty sure she wasn’t born with X-ray vision and can’t see me. “Life is a ball of fun.”
I stand from the bed and stare down at my tented joggers.
This is not going to do. I can’t go to Café Peppermint with my dick leading the way.
They’ll never let me return. So I grab a pair of jeans from my closet and slip off my joggers, say a quick hello to my erection— looking painful, my guy —and slip my jeans on, sliding my dick carefully against the more restrictive fabric.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” she asks.
For the love of God, woman, leave me alone!
I stare down at my dick and how it’s protruding against the jeans. Fuck.
I glance around my closet, looking for something, anything to help cover up, and that’s when I see one of my dress shirts. Untucked, it will cover up just enough.
So I tear my current shirt off and slip a black dress shirt on. I fluff it over my dick, then look at myself in the floor-length mirror. I turn to the side, then the other side.
Yup, I think that works.
“Levi?”
“Yup, hey, hello. Just changing.”
“Oh, are you leaving?”
“Going out,” I shout and slip on my tennis shoes because I don’t care right now. I don’t care what I look like.
Well . . . I kind of care. I don’t need people recognizing me. So I grab a bucket hat and toss that on my head, followed by a pair of sunglasses, and for the hell of it, I wrap a scarf around my neck and up to my chin.
There.
Unrecognizable.
Knowing I’ll be able to walk around undetected, I proudly step out of my closet and straight to my door, opening it to find Wylie on the other side, worrying her lip.
When her eyes meet mine, the worried expression morphs into humor.
“What . . . what are you doing?”
I adjust my sunglasses and say, “It’s called going incognito.”
“You think you’ll go undetected walking around like that?”
“Yes. People won’t notice me.”
“They’re going to notice the six-foot-four man walking around with a scarf around his neck.”
“Not the people I’m walking by.”