Only Blaine will have this honor. He’ll lift me against the rock and lower me on his thick shaft. I slip an index finger into my pussy, skimming my fingertip along my inner walls.
He’ll ram into me again and again, making my body his, claiming me completely. My legs tremble, my passion rising quickly, primed after a long night pressed against Blaine’s body.
I add a finger, stretching my pussy open as Blaine someday will, and I pump deep, fast, driving my arousal relentlessly higher. Need coils around me tighter and tighter. Pussy juices gush down my hand and water streams over my back and breasts, every inch of me touched, caressed.
I quiver, I shake, fulfillment rushing toward me, as unstoppable as the rising sun. I drive my fingers deep and I tap my clit with my thumb. The contact breaks me. I bite my bottom lip, stifling my scream, arching my spine, my pussy clenching my fingers, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing.
“Were you watching me, Blaine?” I murmur as the tremors subside. “That one was for you.” I hold out my fingers. The water washes my juices, my scent, off my skin.
I pump conditioner into my palms and apply it to the hair on my head and my private curls, the vanilla scent concealing my musk. Blaine leaves the conditioner for me, the formulation having the magical ability to tame my constant frizz.
I don’t rinse off, leaving the conditioner in, and I return to the lounge chair, the sun drying my skin. Extracting the key from the robe’s pocket, I return it to its rightful place, nestled between my breasts, the black ribbon soft and the gold key cool.
Refreshed and sexually sated, I shrug into the robe, slip my feet into my scuffed baby blue flip-flops, gather my panties and bra, and pad across Blaine’s lawn. Each step releases fragrances from the natural ground cover.
A honeybee moves industriously between lavender purple verbena, never pausing long at any blossom. He has work to do, an entire hive of bees depending upon him.
I unlock the gate separating Blaine’s semiwild backyard from the Leighs’ modern-art-strewn “entertainment venue.” This venue hasn’t been used for a month as the plastic surgeon and his wife gallivant around Europe fixing noses and increasing bra sizes. I’m house-sitting and, as a house-sitter, even their swimming pool is off limits to me.
I wander toward the concrete and glass modern bungalow, enter through the sliding back door, leaving my flip-flops outside, as shoes aren’t allowed inside the house, and I head to the converted storage closet serving as my bedroom.
I place the note from Blaine in the carry-on-size suitcase containing all of my worldly possessions. Discarding the robe, I change into one of the pretty white panties he sent me, the matching bra, denim cutoff shorts, and a tank top.
I spend the morning sorting through the mail, separating the bills from the Leighs’ personal letters and junk mail. My agreement with the doctor and his wife is I pay for utilities and maintenance in exchange for a free place to stay. I thought this would mean paying almost nothing.
My stomach twists with every envelope I open. I might have severely underestimated the utilities on a sprawling bungalow. I haven’t run the air conditioner once, suffering through the hellishly hot weather. I reduce lighting to the bare minimum. I’m barred from using Dr. Leigh’s enormous big screen TV and I don’t have a computer.
The total is still insanely high.
I must have made a mistake. I add the figures up again. The number doesn’t change, the amount owed equal to half of my monthly income. If I pay for the utilities with this Friday’s paycheck, I won’t be able to afford bus fare or food.
Boss man won’t give me any extra shifts at Feed Your Hungry, the charity I work for. I haven’t yet technically landed a meet and greet, Blaine’s donation being the only reason I’ve kept my job this long.