Shell Shocked

Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

JAKE

March, 2013

In those seconds before full cognition every morning, in the space between asleep and awake, I was often in a geographical fog. More often than not, I’d be in some mid-grade hotel where I had to reorient myself to the city and the job. Usually not my favorite, much preferring to wake up in the familiarity of my house. But this morning, in this hotel, as I turned my body over and came face to face with the most beautiful pair of bright blue eyes, I was grateful for my nomadic life bringing me to this point.

I smiled and stretched my arms over my head. “Good morning.” I reached over and pulled Shelby into me for a kiss. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. I had a dream about having sex with Jake Ford.” She giggled.

I considered how I felt about hearing my full name come out of her mouth. I had been hearing it in a different way than most people hear their name for almost thirty years. Being introduced as a guest on a teen spotlight show where it was usually followed by screaming. Fans using it to address me before gushing and asking for an autograph or picture. It had been better lately, as I was proud of the thing my name was associated with these days.

I know she was just being silly, but to Shelby I just wanted to be Jake.

I cupped her face and stroked her cheek with my thumb. She looked down and a hint of a blush bloomed on her cheeks. She was thinking about last night. I wondered if it was embarrassment at her tears or the happy butterflies like I was experiencing when I played back the night in my mind. Likely a mix of both.

I’d never been with a woman who showed me so much in such a short time. She didn’t tell me a thing, and maybe she never would, but she ran nearly the full gamut of human emotion last night. The sudden burst of anger—I’d had a fleeting thought that the “good girl” thing was to do with something dark and sinister from her childhood and I’d hoped against all hope that I was wrong. Remorse. Tension. Anxiety. Calming. Melting. Tears, surrender and ecstasy. She was a kaleidoscope and I’d been positively transfixed.

I had fallen to the floor completely consumed by her exquisite tragedy. I could never have imagined a woman so undeniably compelling, her tears like magnets drawing me deeper and deeper. Whatever she had wanted, whatever she had needed, I would have given it to her. I’m not a religious man, but since I was already on my knees, I vehemently thanked the heavens in that moment for her wanting and needing me.

I was able to make her come so easily even though she had broken wide open, so raw and exposed. Most people might delve into paralyzing self-consciousness, their insecurities hijacking any hope of orgasm. Not Shelby. In those moments she chose to trust that I could give her what she needed, and she gave herself over to me completely. It was the greatest high I’d ever experienced, and I knew that’s what I’d be chasing from now on. I could hear my therapist in my head cautioning me, and at some point, I’d consider being more careful. But later. Much later.

I pride myself on being able to take cues and read people well—body language, micro expressions and the things they don’t say, but it delighted me to my core to find Shelby was excellent at taking cues as well. The pleasure of my cock buried in her perfect pussy married with the pain of my flesh caught between her teeth, God. She rocked my fucking world.

Shelby ran her hands over my body, and began to wiggle her hips, inching closer to me.

“What’s going on here?” I put my hand on her ass and moved her a little more.

“You’re not the only one with morning wood.” She laughed, then grasped my erection and began to stroke.

I put my hand between her milky thighs and felt her deliciously slick. “Mmm. Guess not.”

She reached over for a condom on the nightstand, opened the package and rolled it onto me. She turned away onto her side and shimmied her ass, backing into me in wordless instruction. Eagerly I turned on my side to meet her and slid deep into her from behind as she tangled her top leg with mine.

We fucked in glorious slow motion. Her hips pressed back to meet my every stroke, our bodies rocking together in rhythms that felt practiced and familiar—like we’d been dance partners in another lifetime.

It felt luxurious and decadent. Like something I shouldn’t be allowed to have. Something that was bad for me. And truth be told, it probably was, but I didn’t give a fuck.

I wanted to indulge in her completely. Inhale the essence of her hair and the remnants of last night’s perfume behind her ear. Memorize how her soft skin felt beneath my fingers and tasted on my lips. Record every moan, every whimper. I wanted to etch all of this into every fiber of my being because I knew that in a week, in a day—hell, in an hour, how badly I’d be craving her.

I reached around to give some love to her clit and was delighted to find her fingers already there. I put my hand on top of hers, moving in slippery circles right along with her. In no time we were spiraling together in rare synchronous orgasm.

When we were done languishing in bliss and I’d finished my turn in the bathroom, I came out to find her wandering around the room. “Why am I blind? Where’s the coffee maker?”

“You passed it on your way out of the bathroom.”

“Ah, gotcha.” She went over and busied herself with starting the coffee and I just smiled as I watched her. Naked as the day she was born, and not a second thought about it. I'd even put a pair of boxer briefs on. I loved how comfortable she was without clothes. I was used to women who race to cover up or dart through the shadows like naked ninjas.

“What do you want to do today?” she asked, looking at me over her shoulder.

I tore my eyes away from her perfect, heart shaped ass, slid up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “I thought we’d go have breakfast and take a walk along the river. We could go shopping or go to the art museum? You’ve probably been here a lot, is there anything you like to do?”

“Honestly, I usually hang out in neighborhoods like Logan Square or Andersonville, not usually downtown. Breakfast and a river walk sounds great. It looks like a decent day outside.”

“Listen,” I said as I traced along her neck with my nose, “if we have any hope at all of leaving this room, you are going to have to put clothes on immediately.”

I’d wondered how long it would take her to get ready to head out, not knowing what her daytime routine might be. Turned out a quick shower, a little mascara and lipstick, and hair up in a simple ponytail with a faded black bandana took less time than I needed for myself. She wore a fitted black and white checked button down darted perfectly to highlight her body shape, a black cardigan, cuffed dark wash skinny jeans and bright red Chuck Taylor high tops. My favorite cartoon in casual perfection.

I also loved that she wore the perfume she had on the day we met. Sweet honeysuckle with a hint of tea rose. Vintage and classic, but not old fashioned, it thrust me right back to that day and I couldn’t stop smiling. I also appreciated that she had a “nighttime” perfume too. In Vegas and last night, she wore something much more sensual, a sultry jasmine and oud combination that conjured an image of the dark and sexy underbelly of the Orient in the mid-century.

I’d filmed a show with a scent specialist in the first season. It was meant to be funny, synthesizing fake urine spray for camouflaging hunters, the smell of human excrement recreated for pranks and the like. But Gerald was very passionate about his craft and had a nose like I never knew a human could. We talked about scent in length, well beyond filming, and still have a relationship to this day. He offered to help me create my own signature scent, and we worked together over the course of several weeks to be able to give my sense of smell space to rest and develop, and to acclimate to the intensity of the project. The final product became top notes of bergamot, mandarin and lavender, spices in the center-- anise, caraway and pink peppercorn, and a base of amber, vanilla, musk and oak moss.

Shelby’s perfumes were exquisite, and I thought that maybe when our time together was over, I might be tempted to work with Gerald to try and recreate them.

After breakfast, we wandered around downtown Chicago. It was a blissfully mild spring day, sunshine and low 60s. Every little while, she’d point out a restaurant whose name she’d recognized. Each time, I’d ask if she’d been there, and she’d say no.

“So, how is it you know about all these places, but you’ve not been?” I thought maybe she had a restaurant bucket list she had yet to tackle.

“Well, I used to hear a lot about restaurants. Particularly Chicago restaurants. My husband…my late husband, Ari, was a chef.”

This was the first time she’d mentioned him. I knew I would have to watch myself here. I was so curious about him, but I didn’t want her to shut down if the conversation got too intense.

“He had a restaurant downtown Milwaukee called The Scorpion and the Frog. It’s a Mediterranean fusion place.”

“Ari. That’s short for…”

“Aristotle. His mother was really into Greek philosophy and loved the name. He played right into it, though. He went to culinary school in Greece when our son was a baby, then his dad helped him open the restaurant shortly after he got back. I suggested he call it “Aesop’s Tables.”

“That’s clever.”

“He loved it, but when we looked it up there were already three other restaurants in the country with that name. I tried to convince him that if he was the only one in Wisconsin it would be fine, but he couldn’t stand the thought of not being original. So, he settled on the name of one of Aesop’s fables.”

“Except it’s not. The Scorpion and the Frog was a loose adaptation of one of Aesop’s fables, but not actually his.” There was a time during my late teen years when I was a little obsessed with Greek philosophy myself. “It’s a commentary on narcissism.”

Shelby stopped walking and studied my face, blinking several times like a computer processing information. She looked out over the river, she shook her head subtly, and in her profile, I saw a hint of a smile. It didn’t seem to be fondness or wistfulness or nostalgia. I would have guessed that she was feeling smug.

The late husband portion of the conversation had ended as organically as it began, and I was grateful. No fanfare and no tears meant that the subject could very well come up again.

I was beginning to realize that Shelby’s complicated emotional state may have had less to do with her husband’s death and more to do with the man himself.

We made our way back to the hotel to rest and get ready for dinner. I’d made reservations and I wanted to give us plenty of time. Shelby was not to be rushed, especially with the plans I had.

“How long will you need to get ready for dinner?” I asked.

“Hmm, a little over an hour. Are we okay on time?”

“Perfectly fine. Hey, I uh…” I stammered. I wasn’t sure if this was going to come out right—I didn’t know how to ask without sounding creepy. “Do you mind if I watch you get ready?”

She looked at me inquisitively, her eyebrows pinched slightly. She tilted her head and her face softened. “Not at all. Let me jump in the shower and then I’ll set up my stuff.”

When she’d finished in the shower, she grabbed her toiletry bag and brought it to the desk. Looking out the window seemingly surveying the amount of natural light she had, she then went into her suitcase and pulled out a lighted mirror. I was impressed.

She carefully laid out her things. Brushes, eyeshadow palettes, false eyelashes, curling iron, hairbrush and accessories. The desk was filled with all things girly and Mad Man was beside himself.

She grabbed her phone and a portable speaker. After a quick scroll, a swing beat started with a woman’s voice singing about how she was “too damn hot.”

She was going about this almost as if I wasn’t there. I wondered if this was kind of meditative for her—something she really loved, like getting your mise en place ready before beginning to cook. She went back to her suitcase and pulled out something red, then took off her robe and slowly slid a red, lacy thong up her thighs. She picked up a matching red bustier and put that on while facing away from me so I could watch while she fastened each of its many hooks. She grabbed a small, zippered pouch and from that pulled out a garter and stockings. She put the garter on and slid the stockings on one by one, fastening each at the top effortlessly. During all of this she’d steal a few glances at me to make sure I was watching.

I was.

I wasn’t even blinking. I didn’t want to miss a second of this show. I was awestruck that she seemed to know exactly how I’d wanted this to go.

She made her way over to the desk and I sat on the edge of the bed. At some point I would need to shower and get dressed too, but for now, it was all about her. She began with her hair. Sitting up straight, straighter than was probably comfortable and arching her back, she began to curl her hair and twist it into a few victory rolls at the top, carefully securing them with bobby pins she’d opened with her teeth. She was leaving the back down and long, so she made sure to curl those into loose ringlets before carefully brushing them out to make soft waves. She pinned a red rose off to the side. A red rose that matched her lingerie and it made me giddy that I’d be the only one who knew.

Every now and again, she’d meet my eyes in the mirror. She’d smile a little smile and continue doing what she was doing. She’d bop along or sing a little with the music just like she did in the Cherrie Bombshell videos.

By this point, I was crawling out of my skin with need. I rubbed my hands up and down my thighs to try and distract myself. I knew this was going to be something, but catching this live show was way more exciting than I could have imagined. Particularly because instead of hundreds or even thousands of people getting to see her, this time it was just for me. And she seemed to know how it was affecting me.

But the capper, the pièce de résistance , was her putting on her lipstick. We were coming to the end of the show, and this was the finale. Tracing the outline of her perfect pout before filing it in flawlessly with the fire engine red color. And now I’d tasted those lips. Those magical lips that felt like velvet wrapped around my cock. I raked my hands through my hair as I began to sweat.

She looked at me in the mirror. “Are you okay over there? You’re awful fidgety.” She smiled.

“Yup. Just fine.” Lies. Far from fine. Ready to explode, in fact.

“You don’t look fine,” she mischievously accused as she held the lipstick tube away from her mouth. “You look like you have a secret.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I think you really like this. I think this is turning you on.” She turned to face me instead of continuing to look atme through the mirror. “In fact, I think you’d really like to touch yourself right now.”

I swallowed hard. “Hmm.” This could be amazing or spectacularly embarrassing. I was so hot I was willing to bet I’d jerk it three or four times and that would be that. That’s not sexy. “Maybe.”

“Give me one second to fix this part of my hair.”

“And then what?”

“And then it’s my turn to watch you.”

God. Damn.

This was happening. My fucking fantasy come to life.

She finished her hair and spun around. She swung her legs over the arm of the chair and stared at me, heat burning in her perfectly made-up eyes. “Your turn.”

It was all I could do to not undo my pants as fast and as furiously as I wanted to. I wanted to turn her on too, and masturbating like I had just clumsily stumbled into puberty was not going to do that. At least I didn’t think so. I unleashed myself and slowly started stroking.

She placed the fingernail of her index finger gently between her teeth. Watching as her eyes would go between meeting mine and down to what I was doing was spurring me on even harder. This was not going to take long.

She looked like she was readjusting herself in her chair, but she slowly got up and made her way over to the bed. She put her hand on my chest and knelt next to me. She tilted her head toward mine and brought her lips to my ear. After grazing her tongue along my earlobe, she asked, “Do you touch yourself when you watch my videos, Jake?”

I nodded feverishly.

“Did you touch yourself while watching me even before we met?”

I nodded again, unable to control my panting.

“Hmmm.” She trailed several kisses along my neck. “Well, then that’s something we have in common.”

That was it.

I came like cannon fire.

Shelby took no time at all with her own orgasm. I certainly hadn’t wanted to mess up her hair and makeup, so I helpfully suggested she perch herself on my face.

For all the sins I’ve committed, being anointed by this woman’s pussy was an absolution I didn’t deserve. But until my true nature was discovered, until the day it would all implode, I would feast on and bathe in her sacrament every chance I got.

After the waiter took our order, I turned to Shelby and smiled. I scrubbed my hands over my face, a little nervous to ask my question.

“So…you know my secret. How much I liked your videos, and how I watched you even before we met. It’s all out there. You said we had that in common.” I grinned and put my elbows on the table, my face in my hands in an expression of pure fascination. “I want to know more about that.”

She let out a giggle, and then a large sigh, like she was psyching herself up for the confession. “Well. To put it bluntly, you were my sexual awakening.”

“I beg your pardon?” That I had not expected.

She nodded. “My mom watched all the daytime soaps and once when I stayed home sick from school in seventh grade “ Salte Ste. Marie ” came on. I’d never watched soaps with her before and she felt the need to explain to me when people landed in bed together how much of a sin that was, blah, blah, blah. Then you came on the screen. Tight black T-shirt, earrings, bad boy grumpy hotness. It piqued my interest for sure.”

“So, wait. You had your sexual awakening watching soaps with your mom?”

She laughed. “No, that came later. It was the beginning of that summer when I started watching in my bedroom. It was at the peak of the whole ‘will they/won’t they’ with Foster and Nikki? Remember?”

“Oh yeah, that was kind of fun.” The storyline had dragged on for months, and it got a lot of attention. I got a lot of attention after that, too.

“Anyway, the argument in the alley, in the rain, how you grabbed her and kissed her. And then when you took her into the stockroom at the bar, pressed her up against the wall with her arms up over her head…well. I started to feel things in places.”

I stared at her trying to picture her at twelve or thirteen lusting after Foster McBride. God, he was such an ass, but I’ll admit, fun to play. I never really understood the whole “bad boy” appeal, but man, after those episodes, things ratcheted up for me in a big way. At the time I thought it was a big deal, the fact that I couldn’t throw a stick without hitting a woman who’d eagerly spread for me. Looking back, though, I have many more regrets than fond memories.

She continued. “I stumbled upon my mom’s romance books around then, too. You know, like the bodice rippers with the shirtless guy on the front? I remember wanting to read them because I thought they’d be nice love stories and then, boom, the sex would start. I remember being so shocked that my perfect Christian mother would have these books, but then I really got sucked in. Instead of the guy on the cover of the book, though, I would picture you.”

“So, you’d be reading one handed then?” I arched an eyebrow at her.

She giggled, “Sometimes, yes. I was brought up to believe that sex and masturbation were these shameful, forbidden things, so I struggled with my sexuality throughout my teens. Like, to be having these thoughts and feelings that felt so good and so natural to do something about. How could it be a sin? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up. I can’t imagine growing up like that.”

She shrugged. “How about you? Did you have a sexual awakening?”

“For boys, a sexual awakening can happen if the breeze changes,” I laughed. “But no, I guess I did have a significant moment. And I’m pretty sure I am in the company of thousands of other boys who came of age in the 70s, especially those of us with single mothers.” I inhaled deeply for dramatic effect. “I fondly remember the day I discovered the intimates section of the Sears Catalog.”

Shelby laughed a loud, hearty laugh I hadn’t heard before. It was melodious and infectious, and I wanted to make her laugh like that all the time. When I wasn’t making her scream, that is.

“Are you serious?” she squeaked.

“Hell yeah! One day you’re innocently flipping through the toy section and then you accidentally stumble upon ladies in bras and underwear, nightgowns, lacy teddies. Something clicks. I had to hide it under my bed after I’d stuck a few of the pages together.” I chuckled. “Later on, I had all the obligatory posters on my bedroom walls like Farrah Fawcett and Cheryl Tiegs. Oh, and Maeve St. Vincent.”

“Maeve St. Vincent, as in who played Nikki’s stepmother Cassie on the show?” Her eyes got wide.

“Yup. I got cast having no clue she was on it. Walked in on day one and came face to face with my fantasy. That was surreal to say the least.”

She was staring at me with a strange expression I couldn’t figure out until she cocked her head to the side and smirked. “Sounds familiar.”

Holy shit .

“Did you and she ever…?” she asked.

“Oh hell no. She was older, married and never even gave me the time of day unless we were in a scene together. I’d kind of gotten over her by then, too.” I took a breath. “Had you gotten over me by the time we met? I know that seems like a strange question to ask since, well, everything that’s happened. But I’m curious. How were you feeling about filming the show?”

“It was weird. My teens and adult years went along and yeah, you were fading into the background. Sometimes I’d see a picture or movie poster and smile a little out of nostalgia. Then my son Brody was flipping through the cable channels a few years ago and we stumbled on ’Dare Me to Do it .’ A lot of those memories came back, and something else. I decided I liked you with a little more age, your face was much more interesting to me. Like you’ve lived a couple of lifetimes in the years in between and you seemed to have so many stories.”

She put her hand on my face. My heart began to race at the tender gesture and at what she was saying. I had rarely in my life felt as seen as I did just then.

“And the show. We liked it when it first started, how silly it could get. But when you started asking people to share deeper insights, asking them about their lives and their feelings, and being so genuinely interested in their stories, well. My crush came back.”

She smiled and her sparkling eyes told me she was telling the truth.

I am rarely at a loss for words, but I had nothing.

Shelby put up a finger as the waiter passed. When he approached the table, she said, “Can we get two shots of Malort, please?”

I looked at her bemused.

“Have you had it?” she asked.

“I’ve heard of it. And not good things.”

She laughed. “It’s a rite of passage I need to share with you as a Chicago adjacent resident. It’s like the liquor equivalent of ‘smell this and tell me if you think it’s bad.’

The waiter brought the small cordial glasses and placed them in front of us. Shelby picked up her glass and held it up. I did the same.

“I guess an appropriate thing for me to say at this point is, I dare you.”

I laughed as our glasses clinked. I inhaled as I brought to my mouth. It didn’t smell too bad at first, saffron and fruit I couldn’t place, but when the notes of burning oil and chemical sludge hit, I winced. I bravely took a sip.

J?egermeister is fucking delicious compared to Chicago’s prank liquor.

Shelby made a face after taking a sip of her own. “I’m going to tell you how I describe this to people, and you tell me if you think it’s accurate.” She put her glass down and crossed her arms on the table. “Rubber bands soaked in grapefruit juice.”

Damn if that wasn’t right on.