What She Owed Him

Five years ago, if anyone had told Fiona Mills she’d give her heart to a man wholly, completely and without even a fleck of remorse she would have laughed until the freckles floated off the bridge of her nose. In art school, she was the kind of girl who painted her fingernails black and had a permanent cigarette tucked behind her ear. She supported herself by posing for photographers who wanted to fly her to L. A. to “meet the right people,” whatever that meant. Images of her scantily clad body could be found on the corkboard walls of auto repair shops and Lonely Man Laundromats throughout the Pacific Northwest.

The lovely Ms. Mills was a born pin up, but her humble roots precluded a diva’s sense of entitlement. She had naturally lovely gams made shapelier by daily workouts and sprinting to beckoning cabs. Skirts and dresses hugged her hips like good friends. Men in fast cars would change lanes and run red lights to get a closer look at her décolletage. She just wasn’t cut out for a normal life with a desk job and I ♥ mugs. Besides, her unconventional career goals were good for the economy. By refusing to toil 9 to 5, she was creating a space for someone who wanted to work.

But a pin up has a short shelf life and Fiona floundered, not knowing what to do with her arts background. She took a writing class at a community college hoping to fall in love with literature. She fell for the instructor instead. Kevin Doyle was a brilliant, sensitive man. . . the kind of fellow women made sacrifices for. Think Sylvia Beach and James Joyce. What woman wouldn’t give her eyeteeth to serve a man with the power to take words and spin them into hope?

Now, the only thing Fiona Mills was really passionate about was her boyfriend. “Boyfriend” was too prosaic a word for the exquisite maleness that was Kevin Doyle, but he wouldn’t let her introduce him to people as King Kev, Wondrous Gift to Humanity and Worthy Recipient of Daily Blow Jobs.

He was so handsome! With his thick black hair and elegant visage it wasn’t a stretch to assume the good man held a job in academe. He was a popular teacher. He had the capacity to bring out the best in people and that increased his desirability a thousand fold. No one had ever brought out the best in Fiona before. Kev made her feel like she could do and not just be.

Looking through her portfolio one day, Kevin said, “You have too much going for you to live the starving artist cliché. Let’s take your gifts and gormandize.”

He encouraged her to try a more active approach to glam photography. . . taking pictures instead of posing for them. She lost the cigarettes and other affectations, dyed her hair back to its natural shade of dusky blond, and only exposed her cleavage when modeling a new lacy bra for her sweetheart. She was a successful businesswoman now, turning heads for all the right reasons.

He helped her open a studio and last year was a banner year for Fiona’s Photography. The heft of a Nikon gave a certain gravitas to her precarious existence and she was rarely without her favorite equipment. Cradling her camera on planes and road trips, she held a framed portrait of Kevin in her mind’s eye.

One night as the lovers were dressing for the requisite cocktail party celebrating the opening of a new show at a gallery owned by a mutual friend, Fiona stopped in her tracks, kicking off patent leather pumps that pinched her toes anyway.

“Stop, stop, stop. I forgot something.”

Kev arched a brow, no doubt speculating what else could fit inside her little black dress.

“I forgot to go down on you this morning.”

Her sweetheart chuckled and said, “Fi, you don’t have to do that for me every day.”

Shucking her dress to the floor, exposing garters and matching panties no bigger than a thumbprint, she said, “And you didn’t have to change my life. Please. . . let me express my gratitude in new and improved creative ways.”

Kevin held up his hands in mock surrender, resigned to receive his lover’s bottomless adulation.

She unzipped her man’s fly and got down on one knee, not caring if she appeared to be genuflecting at the foot of an idol. If any man deserved worship it was Kevin Doyle.

Her lips gladly fluted over the tip of his erection and he gasped in approval as Fiona’s mouth darted all the way down to the base of his shaft. She let her tongue loll for a taunting span of time before sauntering mid-length only to plunge back down again. Over and over she took this seesaw approach until she was fairly confident Kev was getting the suck of his life.

He pulled her up and backed her against the nearest wall, ripping her panties off in the process.

“Remind me to buy you some real underwear,” he murmured while lightly pinching the rosettes of her nipples.

“Remind me to never wear underwear,” she countered, looking into his smoldering eyes for all the love she had ever dared hope for.

He filled her with his desire. She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he held on tight and pumped her with everything he had within him to give. As always he was astounded by her wetness, her folds forever pliant and longing to embrace his cock in the act of love.

It made him hard just thinking about his next blow job and knowing how wet she’d be once he parted his appendage from her luscious lips. He need only reach down to feel the heat not only in her mound but coursing freely down her inner thighs. Damn, how he loved to fuck her after oral sex.

If she was so determined to pamper his penis he would find a way to accept this obeisance as his due. It really wasn’t that difficult given his healthy self-image.

Still, he hoped his girlfriend didn’t think she owed him anything. Fiona was his best friend as well as a life partner. “Fi,” he said, while attempting yet again to dress for the party. “You don’t feel like you owe me anything, do you? I mean, that gave me pause when you said you forgot to go down on me this morning.”

Fiona smiled. “I like who I am thanks to you. I feel compelled to express my gratitude in ways that give my life meaning and joy. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he said, letting a hand glide down the ramp of her curves. “I have an idea. Let’s stay home tonight.”

End of Part One. You can read Part Two here.

1 Comment (leave a comment)

Leave a comment

*Indicates required field