Chapter 9
The weeks following the dildo disaster are blessedly uneventful. After we got over the initial excruciating awkwardness, we locked the incident away in the same box we lock away all the moments we’ve crossed the “only friends” line.
Thank god my request to permanently move to dayshift got approved. Now I can be home with Delilah regularly.
Every morning, we wake tangled into a pretzel and take turns showering. Whoever showers second makes the coffee, and when we switch, the other makes breakfast.
She studies so much I don’t know how her eyes stay open. She’s the first person in her family to get a college education and I’m so fucking proud of her.
Until recently she worked part-time at the market. Most of her income went to her deadbeat egg donor, and for several years the rest paid for textbooks while she relied on student loans for tuition.
Last year she got a full scholarship that covered tuition, books, and living expenses. She swears she doesn’t remember applying for it, but is grateful, nonetheless. The financial aid allowed her to quit her job and focus solely on her education.
She doesn’t remember applying for it because it doesn’t fucking exist. It killed me that she was always stressed about money, so I decided she shouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.
After she registers each semester, I call the registrar and pay her tuition in full and pre-load her school account to cover anything else she needs.
Covering living expenses proved much trickier.
Each semester, I transfer money to her bank account.
Lucky for me, I happened upon her account number when I accidentally tore open the envelope she asked me to mail to the power company and found a check inside signed by my doll. Weird how things work out sometimes.
Taking care of Delilah is my greatest guilty pleasure—I get off on it. Now that we’re living together and her stress levels are so much better, I walk around in a constant cloud of satisfaction knowing I did that for her.
For my girl.
My girl.
While she’s focused on school, I fixate on her, no different from the last seventeen years of my life. The thoughts have rapidly evolved now that I know what she looks like in my bed, and the cute grin she gives me when she wakes up.
And how she looks dripping wet in a towel, clutching a box containing a vibrating dick.
We eat dinner together every night, whether at home—I fucking love that it’s our home now—or with friends or family. Each evening, and on my days off, she curls up beside me on the couch reading her dirty books while I play Xbox.
Sometimes she puts her feet in my lap and unintentionally brushes against my cock when she moves. Other times, she lays her head in my lap, and it takes every ounce of concentration I possess not to imagine my dick disappearing between the plump lips that move along with the words on the pages.
I end up taking a bathroom shake-break when she lays on me that way.
My preferred position is when she snuggles into my side so my dick isn’t being tortured, and I can peek over her shoulder to see what she’s reading.
My girl’s a freak.
Never in a million years did I think my little doll read about multiple dudes in love with the same chick and all the ways they fuck her.
Or about a couple fucking next to the body of the man he just killed for touching her.
Or about the woman being bent backwards over a saddle stand getting eaten out like an ice cream sundae.
All with a docile, placid face, right next to me on the couch, in our apartment.
I’ve experienced hand cramps, forearm Charlie horses, a stiff right shoulder, and friction burn from jacking off. I need to figure something out or I’m going to wind up in urgent care with a highly embarrassing presenting condition.
I’ve had a few casual flings over the years. I’m not a monk. But I never hook-up in Swiftwater. It feels disrespectful to Delilah. My friends give me such shit over it.
On principle, I refuse to talk about my sex-life. I’d never want any gossip to hurt Delilah or give our friends and family more ammunition to tease us about being “just friends.”
On the rare occasion I’m sent on a long-term assignment, I try to meet a nice-enough woman, or women, in whatever town I’m in and scratch the itch that never fully abates. The itch only Delilah Tate can scratch.
All in all, I love living with Delilah. It’s like when we played house as kids, but now she doesn’t have to go home early because her mom is screaming, and I don’t have to share her with Olivia and fucking Izzy.
It’s a dream come true. It’s also the sweetest torment having almost everything I’ve ever wanted but knowing in my soul I’ll never have it all.
I’ll never get to kiss her rose petal lips or fist my hand into her white silken hair.
I’ll never palm her breasts that no doubt fit my hand perfectly or lick the dusty pink nipples that peak beneath her loose pajama tops.
I’ll never wrap my hands around her bare hips in a way no friend should and slide my cock into her tight little cunt.
Every night we take turns getting ready for bed and cuddle beneath the sheets on my too-small bed that conveniently presses her against my body. We share pillow talk, and soft, but innocent, touches that burn me with a fire that will never be extinguished.
I watch her drift off to sleep and tell myself it’s enough.
It has to be enough—because it’s all I’ll ever have.