Finally I woke up from the surrealistic dream I had suddenly found myself in. I finished the prep, looked around the kitchen, and planned out what was left to do to provide the high carb load, high protein, and delicious meal I wanted to serve My Mountain.
I had a few minutes, so I sat at the table and started writing notes about the Pep Rally and my thoughts about classical music.
It didn’t take long before I knew I needed the Internet for some research. Upstairs, I cranked up my system and searched “classical music composition” and received a wealth of hits. One website helped hugely.
It talked about themes and organization of themes in concertos and symphonies. Damn, this fits. It even went into how the music differed depending on how the themes repeated through the movements. And, it gave everything specific names as to how patterns emerged and blended.
I organized my thoughts. Thought about whether this would be an essay or a basis of a story. Both were possible.
Real life interrupted by way of a kitchen timer! Time to go back downstairs and tend the food. The food for My Mountain.
I need to start this water boiling. These things in the oven. A whip here, a dash there. Quick taste. A pinch and a sprinkle. Rethinking this. Nope, okay. It all was looking good, smelling great, and, from the quick tastes, the texture was perfect and the taste wonderful, if I do say so myself. I may not be Luis’s Mom in the kitchen, but I do know that food should involve all five senses. To me, it is just an extension of my art training.
Everything ready except the last, last minute stuff. Let the flavors blend. Just like a concerto… Yeah. Just like that. Hmmm. Yes I have enough time to run up and work a bit more. I know, I know, it is a laptop computer, but I work better in my room than in the kitchen. I guess that’s my place to explore and create.
Running up the stairs, I thought how much exploring and creating I’d like to be doing tonight.
Damned lake between my legs. I’d better double up the towel on my chair, I’d hate to ruin it.
Where was I? Oh, the sonata form. Oh, and the sonata-rondo and the sonata-allegro. And others. Okay, we have movements, sections, themes, keys, and pacing. Sounds like writing to me when you think of keys as being different aspects of writing such as point of view, voices, and phrasings. Themes are plots and characters. Or, are characters part of the keys?
Back to the Pep Rally. Are the themes the primary groups or are they the instruments? Different solo instruments? No… School spirit is the primary theme. The secondary theme is beating our arch rivals. The orchestra is comprised of the different groups like the cheerleaders, the coaches, the school administration, and the players. Oh, let’s not forget the school band! The students are the audience and this performance is directed at them.
I opened my word processing program and started with the title, “The Champions”, and I started typing. The characters just emerging, the energy from my experiencing of a Pep Rally with new vision went into the pacing, voicing, the choice of instruments from the orchestra I had available. The first theme started and was “Exposed”, then the second theme in a contrasting key – different characters, different pacing. I was just getting into the “Development” phase of mixing themes and keys, building the dramatic tensions through plot and uses of the orchestra, when I looked at the time.
I ran to the kitchen, making doubly sure not to kill myself on the stairs. I needed to save dinner! Things had been simmering a bit too long. I guess practice was taking longer than normal.
A stir here, it’s salvageable. That one is okay, just turn the heat down a tad. Oh, well, good thing I didn’t put in the bread yet. It would be charcoal.
Practice must have gone on for a bit. No problems.
Now, where was I with the Pep Rally story?
Hmmm… Yeah. Okay, the Coach is getting ready to…
This is fun. What an interesting structure to approach writing. Plus, it keeps me from wondering off plot. Of course the development period allows for some interesting key changes – pacing, characters, and stretching some of the themes to their limits.
Ah, the “Recapitulation” phase. Time to pull the themes back together and use the same key as the original theme.
This is so easy! What a good way to write a short story.
Now, to do a “Coda” or not? Maybe a short one, a bit of an epilogue. Not too much. Leave room for a sequel. More importantly, always leave them wanting more. But, not too much more.
Ah! Not bad. A quick two thousand word short story.
Oh. It’s getting late. I guess that wasn’t so quick.
Okay, I’m getting officially worried. Where is he? Did something hap-
The stupid music of the doorbell. Did the designers of those things have no soul?
Should I be pissed he’s late? Glad he’s here?
Be careful of the steps. A header down the stairs right now would not be good.
Oh, I still have on my smock and the apron.
Too late. He’ll just have to see me this way.
Just as I was about to grab the door handle, my mother’s warning about my expectations versus where he needed to be hit. I composed myself.
Okay, maybe another breath would be good.
Wipe the sweat off my palms on the apron. Good idea.
Now, open the door. Smile on my face.
I found myself in front of Becca’s house and parked.
It took almost all my energy to get out of the car. The damned door weighed more than East’s offensive line. After they’d had dinner at the local all-you-can-eat.
The images of the last hour or so swirling through my head. This continuous loop of images playing over. And over. And over. And…
My left hand reminding me constantly of the whole fucking thing.
The post-adrenaline-rush shakes coming on with a passion. With my body already being low on fuel it was quickly approaching massive shakes and critical.
The sidewalk was endless. The steps up to the front door higher than my feet were comfortable lifting.
Yet, the primordial beast inside of me forcing each foot to reach the next step. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster plodding forward, unsure how to work my massive limbs.
My shaky arm reached out and tried to ring the doorbell. The third time I tried, my oversized finger finally managed to press it.
I wanted… No, I needed my Becca.
The door opened and there she was. Smiling.
I think I smiled and started to collapse into the entryway.
“Oh! My! God! Are you Okay?” I heard her scream.
“Wreck. Bad Intersection.” I collected my wind, “I’m… Okay.”
My sweet Becca put her shoulder under my arm (yes, I was slumped down that far) and moved me to the sofa in the Living Room. As I collapsed onto the soft cushions, I realized my chest was wet. Right about where her face had been.
Oh, you dumb, insensitive bastard. You’ve upset her by your dramatics.
Now, I just wanted to curl into a little teeny-tiny ball and wish the world away. But, I can’t.
Dude, pull yourself together.
I pulled her to me, “Hug and I’ll tell you about my last two hours.”
“Are you Okay? Are you sure? I-I-I mean…”
Instantly I was the target of massive amounts of petite Becca flesh wrapped all around me. And, immediately, I began to feel… well, somewhat human.
We kissed. I have no idea who started it. Don’t care. All the tension left me. The last couple of hours shifted into the right perspective. I might be able to tell her, and hear it myself.
“You know that nasty intersection between here and school?” She nodded. “Well, I was coming up to it. The light was green. Cars were moving through it in both directions. I still don’t trust that intersection. I watched a minivan with a mom and a bunch of kids coming the other way.
“Then this air horn blared as I was entering the intersection…”
She jumped up and looked out the window. “Your car, is it alright?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d been hit.” As she melted back into my chest, it got wetter.
“No. I wasn’t hit. A dump truck, overloaded, ran the intersection a-and hit the minivan.”
“Shit,” I heard from my chest. If possible, it got wetter.
“Yeah. Shit. I can’t get the mom’s face out of my head. I can hear the screams of the kids going from fun time to-to…” Her arms tried to circle me. I rubbed her back with my hands. I suddenly realized she was dressed. The fabric of her smock was rough on the bandage on my hand.
“Not in the wreck. After. Please?” She curled back into my chest, but pulled my bandaged left hand into her to comfort it. Junior, the fucking traitor, liked that. Okay, I did too. “The truck clipped the rear of the van, spinning it right in front of me. I was able to swerve. As I said, I hate that intersection. The truck slid a bit further, I managed to turn and miss him as well. Then I stopped. The van came to rest, the rear mangled, but the front looked okay. I jumped out and ran to it. The mom was freaking out, the kids screaming and crying. The damned door wouldn’t open, but there was a gap. The window was cracked.
“I didn’t think. I hit the window hard enough with my elbow to shatter it, but not push on the lady. A hole formed, not thinking, I grabbed it with my hand and pulled. Then I was able to rip the door open. Don’t ask me how, other than super human strength. The mom calmed down and helped the kids out through her door. They were all fine, just upset and a bit of shock.”
“Your hand?” She was lightly caressing it, but avoiding the worst of the bandage.
“A few cuts. Nothing bad. They put a few stitches into my palm.”
“Will it affect you tomorrow?”
“It shouldn’t. I’ve played with much worse.”
“Are you sure?” She had turned to stare hard into my eyes.
She held my eyes for a minute. “Okay. I’ll believe you.”
“I’m going to have the trainers check it out in the morning and before the game.”
“I’m sorry I worried you.” She looked at me like I’d punch her.
“You didn’t worry me. To be honest, I got lost in some writing. The first I’ve done this week. It felt really good to open that part of my brain and soul again. Every now and then, when I came back to reality, I did wonder what you were doing. I wasn’t really worried. Yet.” She stressed the yet a little hard. But, she did have a twinkle in her eye.
“How about another of those patented, magical, healing kisses of yours?”
After we drifted back from Einstein’s world, I took a moment to clear my head. “I’ve got dinner about ready. I just need to turn up the heat and such. Hungry?”
“Not really, but I need to eat.”
“I understand, My Mountain. You just relax here on the sofa and I’ll get dinner ready. The TV remote is there. It also controls Dad’s extremely complex music system. It has buttons, so I don’t touch it.”
“I’ll play some music and relax. No idiot box for me. Anything you want to hear?” He gave me a smile, obviously recalling my performance in his car the other day with the stereo.
“I trust your choices.”
I headed into the kitchen and started the final touches. Crank up the oven, put this on the burner, and give this a stir. Why? Well, isn’t that what cooks do? I chuckled to myself.
A couple of minutes later, I heard, “Cool! Your dad has some neat playlists.”
A few seconds later, some classic rock came rolling into the kitchen. Argh! I’m a writer and I can’t do better than that line. Some singer with a… harsh voice? Rough? Whatever. Anyway, he started singing about being like a rock. I hope that wasn’t sexual innuendo.
Crap! I forgot my manners. And my plans.
I walked back into the living room. My Mountain was sprawled, that is the only word to describe it, on the couch. His eyes closed, but his foot moving to the music. I had about five minutes, so I carefully snuggled up to his right side.
“I’m such a bad hostess, I forgot to ask if you wanted anything to drink.”
“Right now, a very large glass of water, or two.”
“Would you like a glass of wine with dinner?”
“That would be wonderful. But just one glass.”
I snuggled for a second. Well, a minute or so. A quick kiss, for us anyway. I put as much slink as I could into my hips as I walked back to the kitchen. That’s when I realized I still had my smock on. Oh well, I hope he liked it. I peeked over my shoulder just as I entered the hall. Yep. He enjoyed it. His eyes were locked on my ass. He caught my turn, looked up, and grinned at me. I gave him a wink.
I found one of Jason’s huge cups and filled it with ice and water and then fixed a pitcher.
I took off the apron and unbuttoned the smock, so I would flash him, and walked back into the room. Doing the “catwalk” stroll while carrying a huge glass and a pitcher of water is tough. But worth it. He repaid me with the vacuous stare I’ve written about, but never had directed at me.
And Junior twitched and started to expand.
A lake began forming in my core. I honestly believe my nipples were the only thing holding the smock on.
I carefully handed him the cup and slowly placed the pitcher on the coffee table, making sure that the smock opened completely. When I stood, it took just a boob shake and a shrug of my shoulders and the smock was puddled on the floor. I winked at him again, turned, bent at the waist, leaving my legs straight, and picked up the smock. I looked around, winked again, straightened and headed back into the kitchen.
When I was out of his sight, I nearly collapsed against the wall. Damn, that was hot. Wanton as hell. But, hot as hell. Remembering Mom’s warning, I figured I needed to dial it down a notch.
Not bad, though, for my first session of teasing. I guess reading all those romance novels, the online story sites, and my own fantasies and writing was worth something!
I padded into the kitchen in bare feet, feeling myself squish with every step.
It was damned tough to finish preparing the meal. All I wanted to do was run into the living room and rape my man. Damn!
Eventually, without too much damage to the cuisine, I managed to deliver the meal to the table, pour the wine, and light the candles.
Without the glass and the pitcher, I think my catwalk was much more impressive. Junior agreed completely and saluted me. My Mountain locked his eyes on me immediately. The goofy grin he got on his face was precious. The love in his eyes was intense.
“Dinner is served, sir.”
Junior and about 95% of what was left of my brain wanted to ask if she was the meal.
Before I could form anything coherent, other than a grunt or some other set of primordial sounds, her delicate, beautiful hands where pulling me off the couch. Amazing that such a small girl could cause me to rise so easily. Not to mention how quickly my body got off the couch.
No words were spoken, just a quick kiss, then her arm sort of around my back, as she escorted me into the dining room.
The setting was intimate. Comfortable. Warm. Inviting. The candles flickering in that magical way. The smell of home cooked food filling the air. Ooooo… Garlic! Lots of garlic! Yum!
“Wonderful,” escaped my lips. “Thank you.”
She pulled out my chair for me and I had to figure out how to work with someone helping me push it up. Yet, like everything, we just clicked and it worked.
I’m pretty sure I thanked her, complimented her, and praised her while I was shoveling 10,000 calories of delicious food into my gullet. She was smart enough to know that it should be heavy on pasta and protein. With a delicate balance of veggies and other nutrients.
“This wine is wonderful. It goes with the food perfectly. Italian?”
“Ahem…” she said before running into the kitchen. She returned with the bottle and handed it to me. She looked really flustered and like she had done something wrong.
I pulled her into my lap. “My Becca, it’s fine. The wine matches the food perfectly. I figured it was from north of Rome, but below the Piedmont. Not Tuscan. I figured Parma. And I guessed right. How your parents found this, I don’t know. But, it is perfect! The ham in here is a Parma style ham, so the wine just kisses that flavor perfectly. Thank you.” I kissed her and put all the love I had in me into the kiss.
“My Mountain…” she faintly said, before her head collapsed on my chest. “I was trying so hard to make it perfect.”
“And, my sweet, lovely, incredible, wonderful, and beautiful Becca, you did.”
She melted into me. Well, I was speaking from my heart. Apparently, I was working with more than 5% of brain now.
I pulled her off my chest and gave her another kiss. As much as I tried, that damned time-distortion thing happened again. Shit. I was getting addicted to it. We separated and she went back to her seat.
I did my best to compliment her cooking by consuming it, with relish and absolute delight. The flavors were basic and rich, yet well layered, so they produced a burst of love and passion in every bite. True food. Wonderful food. Absolute magic.
“Are you sure you’re not Italian?” I asked her.
That broke the tension and we went back to eating. Or, I went back to eating, she went back to sampling.
Perhaps I was inhaling. Oh well. I needed the complex carb load and the proteins. “Thank you. This meal is perfect for me tonight.”
“Mom and I have experience with Jason. Although, we did triple the portions for you.”
Her smile was perfect. We tried not to, but we both chuckled at the same time. Which turned into guffaws. Which turned into outright, stomach-crunching laughter.
Then the wreck flashed through my mind.
“The wreck?” she asked softly as she looked deep into my eyes.
I just nodded my head. The images of the mother and kids running through my mind and what could have been.
I was immediately smothered in naked, warm, Becca-flesh. She hugged, as much as she could get her arms around me. Plastered herself to me. Her face over my heart allowed her to send all her love directly into me.
Without realizing, I dropped into deep breathing. She was mirroring me. Or, I her.
Slowly, my heart filled with her love and energy.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“And, I love you.”
My chest got wet again.
I knew these were happy tears. The problem with wrapping my arms around someone like Becca, is I have more arm than girl. To not appear to smother or control her, I always shift around. Try to tell her my love. My compassion.
My right hand, wrapped around her, found its fingertips brushing her wonderful breasts. Boobs. Ta-tas.
My left, with the bandage and all, automatically was cupping her incredible, edible ass.
Junior was definitely rising to the occasion. He loved this.
That small percentage of my brain that was still functional, damn that, reminded me that a) it was her virginity, she had to have control, and 2) something about not fucking the night before a football game.
Oh! My! God!
“It” is about to happen.
Bad. Bad. Bad.
Not the night before…
But, he’d be more relaxed.
And… I’d feel wonderful.
If I could walk tomorrow.
P-Pull… Y-Yourself… T-Togeth…
How can he do that to me with just his hands on my ass?
Where did my smock go?
“Sweetie, one of us needs to be the adult,” he mumbled into my ear.
“You,” I sighed.
“No, you,” he grunted.
“And, your… first… time,” he struggled to get out.
“Gotta happen sometime.”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
I managed to move so it wouldn’t be so tempting to raise myself up and slide down. Okay, maybe not slide down. I’m sure My Mountain could teach me the physics of placing a large object into a small space. Before I could ask, his arms slide around me and pulled me into My Cave. I snuggled in.
“How’s your hand?” I don’t know where that came from. Care? Concern?
“Throbbing a bit, but it will be fine.”
“Are you concerned?”
“Not playing tomorrow because of it?”
I pulled back to look up and into his eyes. I was surprised to see some mirth in them. “Well, what?”
“The person that stitched up my hand was the team doctor. He’d been driving by and stopped. The EMTs are big West supporters and fans, so instead of going to the emergency room and losing hours of time, the doc did it right there with the EMTs helping. He’s going to evaluate in the morning and before the game, but he doesn’t see any problems.”
“Couldn’t he get into trouble for doing that?”
“You know, he was talking about that. When he first went into practice, a doctor stopping at an accident and helping could be held liable for anything and everything, so they had to stop. Now, with sanity in our laws again, he not only can stop and help, he’s encouraged by the law to do so.”
“I’m glad for you and him.”
“Yes. And me. Now you’re here holding me and not stuck in an emergency room eating who-knows-what the night before an important game.”
“I think I like this version of reality better!” Damn! That bandaged hand was cupping my ass again. Oh! My! His fingers are so long. Oh! And thick.
Oh! I must be really wet, that it slid in so… SHIT!
“Please?” I whimpered.
“Please, what?” he whispered in my ear, sending shivers through me.
“Cum?” I panted.
“With pleasure,” I answered her, whispering in her ear while starting to nibble on her ear lobes and that sweet part of the neck right under them. Tracing, slowing the curve down to her shoulder.
My fingers were exploring some wonderful places. The bandage didn’t seem to hinder my movements or feeling at all. Looks like I’d be playing. No pain. Of course, I don’t think the East offensive players would be so willing to let my fingers do their walking like this.
AND THE FUCKING PHONE RINGS! I’m really beginning to think nasty thoughts about Karma and what might have been in previous lives.
Becca moaned, struggled off my lap, and went for the house phone. It hit me, in that moment, I didn’t know where my cell phone was. That was one huge problem of being naked, no place to keep my phone!
A minute later she walked back into the room and held out the phone for me. “Your coach.”
I blew her a kiss as I took the phone from her. She looked like she was about to walk away, but I pulled her into my lap.
“Luis?” I recognized Coach MacFarland’s voice immediately.
“How’s the hand?”
“The Doc called me a while ago. I’ve been trying to track you down.”
“Ahem, given the way I’m dressed all this week…”
“Oh, yeah. Problem. Why you, this week? Never mind. How’s the hand?”
“Overall, good. Not stiff. I have full use of my fingers.” Becca giggled, not enough for Coach to hear, I hoped. I gave her beautiful butt a squeeze.
“Your head in the game?”
“Is the Haka going to work, you guys ready for it?”
“Sir, you saw us in practice. What do you think?”
“The Maori language needs some work before the playoffs, but that doesn’t matter. The overall effect is perfect… You’ve gotten me off track. I want you, when you come in the morning, to come to the training room. The Doc and I will be there to check you out. Understand?”
“Good. Now, keep your head in the game and get back to what you were doing.”
I put the phone down on the couch and pulled Becca in closer to me. “He said to get back to what I was doing. Now, where was I?”
“I believe you were in the middle of molesting me. Quite well, if I say so myself.”
“Should a gentleman molest a lady?”
“This football player better get to molesting his girlfriend.” With that, she attacked me a passionate kiss, her hands in very strategic places, and, for her, a full body slam.
When we broke the kiss, I managed a breathy, “And who is molesting who?”
“Well, you weren’t starting, so I thought I’d remind you.”
“And, what, my dear lady, should I be doing with my hands.”
“Do you remember what you were doing when the phone rang?”
“Vaguely. Ouch!” She poked me in the chest. I showed her how well my left hand was working. My right was doing just fine exploring other bits and pieces that stuck out.
Our lips met again. Fifteen seconds or thirty years later, I found my way to her earlobe. She was making up for the interruption of the phone call nicely, if her moaning, panting, and gyrating were any indication.
The next thing I know, she’s off my lap, grabbing my hands, and pulling me up. “Bedroom. Now.”
Between the training my mother had given me, witnessing her with my father, and other girls in my life, I well knew that tone. “Now” translates to ‘what are you doing just standing there’ in about three microseconds.
As fast as I am, she still beat me to the stairs. Not that I minded. I sincerely hoped I never tired of this view and would be presented it often. Perfecto doesn’t come close to describing the masterpiece in front of me. Not just her ass, but the whole package. The legs that scream grace and power. The intense curves of her back and how the whole thing fits together, particularly in motion. A symphony of complex movements. It was easy to pick up the themes of this movement. Desire. Love. Moving rapidly without haste.
Oh, and there was that nagging feeling that if I didn’t hurry my butt up those stairs, haste or not…
God! I hope my room is… Oh, to hell with it. The bed is there, that is all we need at the moment.
Need… not the right word. Stronger, but short of obsession. Strong desire to show my love. Not to mention getting my ashes hauled. Never really understood that phrase before this moment. Whatever it really means, I needed them hauled, I’ve got the vehicle to do it, the place, and more than the desire.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I went up the stairs. I know I was imagining his hot breath on my back. I’ve got a good imagination. Every exhale of his was just blowing the fires in my core to higher intensity.
Into my room, I grabbed his hands again and threw him on the bed. Thankfully, he wanted to go there, because he did. Either that, or I’ve become super human. I don’t think I could lift his arm over my head. Well, at least not more than twice in a row!
I pounced. God! It’s like hitting a hard, yet warm and cuddly wall. After attacking his mouth with mine for only four eons or so, my tongue traced his jaw and found his ear.
Oh! He’s sensitive there, as measured by both the squirm index and the pulsations of the huge monster between my thighs. Damn! It was hitting the top of my ass when it twitched! Oh, girl, what have you brought upon yourself? You’ll be two people after that is in you.
The tree trunk that is his neck, who’d have thunk it. It’s as sensitive as mine, apparently.
He squirms good.
Then his chest. Sweeping vistas, rolling hills of iron. No, steel. He’s earned every muscle, every ripple, every… Oh yeah!
I had always had the impression that linemen were fat. Not this man. Not an ounce of fat on him. Just this amazing set of well defined, large muscles covering him. Did I mention large? Everywhere!
Yet the skin over them was soft. Not rough. Smooth. It felt so delicious and wonderful under my tongue.
Not to mention the pure Luis taste. A tincture of salt, naturally, but then a mixture of the Italian food he lived on. A hint of garlic, which I love, but not overwhelming. And then something else… I can only describe it as the essence of Luis.
And, that was powerful. In my current state, overwhelming. I was having constant “tingles” as a girl in school, way long ago, described her orgasms.
My explorations ended with Junior. Even before I got to his bellybutton, there was Junior’s crown. Jumping. Leaking. Looking lovely, enticing, wonderful… a bit intimidating.
How much could I put into my mouth?
Okay, it was waaay on the other side of intimidating.
“Oh God!” he groaned. That much! Yummy! A whole different set of tastes. More primal. More basic. Raw.
He must be worked up, I don’t think I’m that good. It was only a few minutes before I had a flood in my mouth and he was telling the Universe about his release. He didn’t mention Einstein once.
I swallowed every last drop, then crawled up beside him, caressing his chest as he came back down to Earth.
Being a big, strong football player must have its advantages. Being young probably helped as well. Within in seconds it was my turn to be attacked.
I had a couple of good, small trips over the cliff just from him playing with my boobs. When he went for my pussy, that was it. The first one was just a bit lighter than the nipple cums.
I lost the ability to count.
Then, as the big one approached and I was getting ready to step off of Everest, I stepped into a black hole instead…
Note: “We’ve Got Tonight” by Bob Seger (alternate spelling of Tonite in some versions). All I can suggest is read the words, they contain much of the back story of Luis and to a lesser degree Becca. It is a bittersweet, sad song that is also full of renewed hope. Personally, I can only recommend the Seger version of the song, not all the other remakes and definitely not the Country version!