The Bedtime Tales of Be287m

Friends and Benefits, Chapter Three

“Do you still have the photos?” Sherri asked, our menus having been collected by the waiter. I nodded.

“Shoebox in my closet. With the others.”

“Other pictures?”

“I’ll get to those,” I replied. Sherri’s eyes flashed in response. Devilish and almost feral.

“Do you like taking sexy photos of women?” she asked, her words slow and measured.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll keep that in mind,” she drawled. She brushed a few black strands of hair away from her face. Then she slowly licked her lips.

I felt my cock stiffen in response. I slowly let out my breath.

“Allen was right, you know,” Sherri commented, much more seriously. “You can’t erase old memories, but you can write over them with newer, better ones.”

“I know,” I admitted. “That’s why I called the agency. I thought getting laid would help and in my drunken state, that’s all I could think of. While the dinner with Sharon was a lot of fun, and what happened afterward with the photos was mind-blowing, it wasn’t enough.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. But I suppose I should explain . . .”

* * *

The next time we got together, neither Sharon nor I said anything about the pictures. I was scared she’d declare that they’d been a mistake. Instead, she seemed nonchalant and as relaxed as she’d been before our night out. We had a casual dinner and caught an ultimately forgettable movie. She had to work at her part-time job the next morning, so I didn’t stay to talk.

A few days later, she called and suggested I come over and hang out that evening. When I showed up just before dinnertime, she ushered me in and headed to the kitchen. The photos were spread out all over the table.

“Wow,” I said, looking at the montage.

“Those are your copies,” she said, pointing to a stack in one corner.

“These,” she said, pointing to a grouping on the left side of the table, “are pretty good. These,” this was a group in the middle, “are okay, but could be better. This last set . . . well, you need some practice, Joe.” I grimaced. The bulk of the photos were in the middle and the ones on the right outnumbered the ones on the left. I’d thought I was a better photographer than that.

“So show me what you mean,” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. Sharon then pointed to one of the pictures on the right.

“My eyes are closed in this one,” she said. “And in this one, the way my hair is hanging over my shoulder looks weird.” I sighed and nodded.

I continued to nod as Sharon walked through each picture on the right side and then each one in the ‘okay but could be better’ middle. Then she turned to the pictures on the left--a mere seven prints. The first four were of her in the dress in various poses, looking elegant and sexy in all of them.

“Now this is a really good picture,” she said, pointing to the fifth one. It was the one of her looking over her shoulder as she leaned into the wall while wearing the teddy.

“You have a great sultry expression on your face,” I commented.

“And it makes my ass look great.”

“You have a great ass,” I said.

“Thanks!” Sharon gave me a smile with that and picked up the next picture.

“I wasn’t sure that posing behind the chair would work, but this one’s really good.” In the photo, Sharon’s head was turned and she had a warm, almost innocent smile. That sense of innocence was offset by the deep view down her cleavage. The teddy had gaped open just enough for me to strain to see if her nipple was visible. It wasn’t, but it was close.

“And this final one’s just plain hot,” Sharon said. It was the last shot I’d taken, with one hand on her thigh and the other cupped below her breast. She looked wanton and aroused.

“It looks like you’re about to touch yourself,” I commented.

“Yeah,” she admitted, grinning.

“Did you?” I impulsively asked.

“Did I what?”

“Touch yourself,” I clarified. “After I left.”

“Well. . .” Sharon’s eyes twinkled, teasing.

“How about if I cash in one of the forfeits from our game a while back?”

“Okay!” Sharon replied. “Yes, I did. I fantasized that you’d shown the picture to Allen and he’d called because he wanted some of his own. I said he’d have to take them himself and he agreed and . . . well, it was a very good fantasy.”

I chuckled and shook my head. At the same time, my gut twinged. I hadn’t gone home fantasizing about an ex. I’d gone home fantasizing about Sharon.

“So,” I said, gesturing at the pictures, “are you going to give me a chance to practice?”

“Maybe,” Sharon replied. “But not tonight. I’m hungry. How do you feel about Mexican?”

“Sounds good. La Estrellita?”

“Sure.” Sharon swept her copies of the pictures into a pile and then grabbed her purse. I snagged my copies and stuck them in my jacket pocket.

We parked about a block away from the restaurant and on the walk up my gut started to churn. It had been a mistake suggesting La Estrellita, I realized. That had been ‘our’ restaurant when Alicia and I were dating. The food was good and cheap and we’d ended up dining there about once a week. In fact, we’d gotten to be such regulars that Alicia would just say ‘the usual’ and the waitress would put in an order for chicken soft tacos with beans and rice. Walking up with Sharon, I kept expecting to see Alicia in the doorway or at one of the tables. It would be too easy to run into her here.

We didn’t. Alicia was not sitting at any of the tables up front or any of the booths to the left. A quick glance into the bar showed just a couple of students and no familiar faces. Even the waitress was new. Letting out a deep breath, I picked up a menu and forced myself to relax. Sharon didn’t seem to notice as she chatted about something that had happened at her job that week. I did my best to fake paying attention as my mind drifted to thoughts of Alicia.

Alicia had been my first true love. Not in The Princess Bride sense, where love transcended and triumphed over all, but in a deeper than puppy-love way. More than the mutual crushes of early high school. Or my high school girlfriend. While we’d used the L word, I don’t think either my high school sweetheart or I had expected it to last, given how young we were. With Alicia, I had. We’d been together long enough by the time I’d graduated with my bachelor’s that I was sure we’d make it.

And now instead of sitting across the table from Alicia, I was sitting across the table from Sharon. Who had been fantasizing about Allen when she’d been posing for me.

Sharon was in a chatty mood and at first didn’t notice as I sunk more and more into quiet despair. She seemed to catch on that she was carrying the whole conversation just about the time the food arrived.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I grumbled.

“You were thinking about Alicia again, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s hard to let go,” she said.

“Yeah, and I know I should.”

“Be gentle on yourself,” she said. “It’s okay that it takes some time. How many months did you let me cry on your shoulder? Six? And how many late nights did I call you because I was lonely or depressed?”

“I didn’t count.”

“I know. And I’m not going to count for you. You need me, I’ll be there.” Sharon’s expression was deeply sincere. I nodded and dug into my food. With my mouth full, I obviously couldn’t reply.

“That’s what true friends are for,” Sharon continued. “We’re there for each other when things are difficult and we support each other. Then we celebrate together when things are good.”

“Whenever that is,” I groused.

“You had a good time at Strings,” Sharon countered.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“So maybe we should do something else like that.”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“How about the Colorado Shakespeare Festival? Before you head back to Arizona.”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

“Great! We can do the picnic on the lawn beforehand and the whole works.”

“The whole works?” I asked, trying to keep any note of hope for what that might include out of my voice.

“Sure! I’ll take care of everything.”

“You’re on!” I replied.

“Great. So how long do we have? When are you headed back to Tucson?” I told her and that turned the conversation to the drive through New Mexico. Sharon had relatives in Albuquerque that she visited often.

Gradually the conversation drifted through family stories, then to stories from our childhoods. I knew Sharon, but I didn’t know her so well for her past to be old hat. That seemed to be mutual as she asked questions about my own stories throughout the conversation. She even laughed at some of my tales about youthful antics.

My tenseness returned when we finished the meal. My eyes kept darting around, looking for Alicia, but of course she was nowhere in sight when we walked back outside.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sharon suggested. It was still warm and light and the Pearl Street Mall was full of people outside enjoying the weather. We wandered past street musicians and teens playing hackey-sack and peered in the various stores. Sharon pulled me into the Arts Cooperative, but none of the various displays interested me much. I retaliated by pulling her into the Kite Shop. She indulged me as I poked through the boomerangs but was a step ahead of me leaving the store.

That’s when she stopped. I pulled up short to avoid running into her. Looking past her shoulder, I then understood why.

Outside, in the crowd walking by, was Alicia. Holding hands with a guy I’d never seen.

Getting kicked in the gut doesn’t hurt as much when you’ve been expecting it all evening. Maybe that’s why we spend so much energy expecting the worst. The anticipation spreads the pain forward a little. So it’s not so raw when the moment actually arrives.

Alicia didn’t see us. In a moment, she and her new guy had passed. Only then did Sharon shift, unblocking the doorway and letting some other customers by. She turned and looked at me. My face gave her all the answers she sought.

Sharon turned and headed out the door, turning the opposite way from where Alicia had gone. I followed, and soon we were back at the car. Moments later we were back at her apartment.

Sharon didn’t get me a drink this time. Maybe it was because I looked too shell-shocked. Instead she sat down on the couch and motioned for me to join her. Then she put her arms around me and held me.

She held me for a long time. I didn’t notice how long. I didn’t really notice the time passing at all. We didn’t talk. I didn’t even think much. I just felt the finality of my relationship with Alicia flood my body and soul.

* * *

I hadn’t been looking at Sherri for a while. Just speaking, lost in my memories. Now I did. Her eyes were wide, and almost sad. Shared sadness, I guessed.

“I have a client,” she said softly, “who pays me to hold him. We never have sex. He pays for the entire night. I go over around eleven, and after listening to him talk about his life since my last visit, we strip off our clothes and climb under the sheets. He cuddles into my arms and eventually falls asleep. Sometimes he nuzzles my breasts, but it’s more a gesture of comfort than arousal. He always feels awkward in the morning, but a few weeks later, he’ll call again.”

I nodded. The guy might be awkward, but he was no fool.

“Do you have a lot of clients like him, like me?” I asked. “Who aren’t hiring you for the sex?”

“I get hired for time and companionship. You know that, Joe,” Sherri said, a hint of tease in her voice. “But yes, I do have some clients who aren’t interested in sex. And even the ones that are often need ministering for something. If all they wanted was a quick orgasm, street hookers are cheaper.”

“So are some of the other agencies,” I commented, remembering the prices in some of the ads I’d looked at the previous night. I’d picked Sherri’s agency because the ad had been classier than the others, and hadn’t been claiming great prices. I had certainly needed something more than a quick orgasm. Wait a minute . . .

“Ministering?” I asked. “What do you mean by ‘ministering’?”

“That’s part of my story,” she said. “Right now, we’re listening to yours.”

“Will you share your story?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she answered. “After you’re done.”

I nodded and took a deep breath . . . .

* * *

Eventually I went home. If back to my parents’ house could be considered home. I didn’t get much yard work done the following week. Instead, I stayed up late every night watching movies and slept the day away. My parents didn’t complain. I don’t think they knew quite what to say.

Sharon did. She took one look at me when I showed up for Shakespeare and scowled.

“Dammit, Joe. You’ve got to get over her!”

“I was going to marry her,” I moaned. “I even bought the ring.”

“Have you taken it back yet?”

“No,” I admitted.

“First thing tomorrow, you take it back, okay? Stop carrying around the hope that Alicia will change her mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I drawled. Sharon’s eyes flared with my comment, but she didn’t respond directly to it.

“Take the ring back, Joe. Do it tomorrow and then come over to my place.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she replied.

Sharon grabbed a packed picnic basket sitting on the counter and pointed me toward a large blanket draped over the back of a chair. I grabbed it and we headed to campus.

We were seeing Comedy of Errors at the outdoor Mary Rippon Theatre. Fortunately, the only errors were the intentional ones on stage. We had no problem finding a good spot on the lawn in from of the Hellems building where the box office and entrance was. Sharon had packed fruit, cheese, good bread, some fine sliced deli meats, small tubs of condiments and a couple of cupcakes. She also had a light pinot noir, which we drank surreptitiously so as to not draw the attention of any busybodies who wanted to enforce Colorado’s no open container law. We had a good conversation about theatre and Shakespeare and I told her tales from my class a few years earlier. The founder of the Colorado Shakespeare Festival had retired from the university to teach. No more committee meetings, no more bureaucracy. Just one class a semester. I’d been fortunate to get him twice.

“You really should try to get Professor Crouch,” I told Sharon. “The man is incredible in the classroom. He walked in on the first day and said we weren’t going to debate who wrote Shakespeare because he didn’t care. What we were going to do was study the plays as plays. It was a literature class, but it almost felt like a drama class as often as we were reading scenes and figuring out the likely staging. Shakespeare really came alive.”

“No wonder you love it,” Sharon mused. “I sometimes wondered how an astronomer got obsessed with the Bard.”

“Maybe ex-astronomer,” I replied. “I don’t know what I’m doing in school anymore.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she reassured. “You’re smart enough to do just about anything.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said.

“Sure you are! You’re one of the smartest guys I know!” I smiled but didn’t reply. That qualification was all-important. Sharon didn’t know some of my classmates in Arizona. Hell, she didn’t know Professor Crouch.

And Professor Crouch would have been proud of the night’s production. The actors had their timing down perfect. Sharon and I both laughed repeatedly, sometimes so hard I was almost out of breath. We were on our feet immediately after the final lines, cheering and applauding. We talked about the play all the way back to Sharon’s apartment.

“Ready for some dessert?” Sharon asked at the door. There was a tease to her voice.

“Sure!”

“Then give me a minute,” she said, heading toward the bedroom while I dawdled in the living room. “I want to change clothes.”

Change clothes? The adrenalin was in full force with those words. So was my growing erection. What would she change into? The teddy? A robe? Something new?

Sharon came back in wearing a t-shirt and jeans. I tried to keep any look of disappointment off my face but she noticed.

“What?” she asked. I decided to make a joke of it.

“Well,” I began, “when you said you were going to change into something more comfortable . . . .”

Sharon laughed.

“I didn’t use those words, Joe.”

“A guy can always hope,” I replied. Sharon laughed again. She moved into the kitchen and began getting out bowls and spoons.

“You’ve seen the teddy, Joe. I don’t have much else.”

“If you’ll model it, I’ll buy it,” I quipped without thinking. Sharon paused and looked up at me. This time, the disdain was missing.

“You serious?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Hmmm,” Sharon said. She opened a cabinet and got down two small glasses and a bottle. Port. Oh, this was a treat.

“I saw a camisole/tap pant combination last week,” Sharon said, “that I really liked. I may take you up on it.”

“Send me the bill,” I said. Sharon just nodded. She handed me the bowls and I headed to the table. Sharon shuttled the port over and then grabbed some ice cream out of the freezer and some toppings out of the fridge.

“Chocolate sauce and caramel,” I commented. “Mmmmm.”

“Gotta have the chocolate sauce,” Sharon replied.

“Absolutely. Chocolate sauce is good for so many things,” I joked. Sharon chuckled.

“Tell me about it. One night when you were out, Allen and I got a bottle of chocolate sauce and . . . mmmm . . . let’s just say that boy knows how to use his tongue!” I laughed.

“Alicia and I used whipped cream,” I commented.

“Oh, we tried that too. The chocolate sauce was better. Particularly when Allen was licking it off my tits.”

“Did you lick it off of him?” I asked. Sharon’s grin turned into a leer.

“Of course. I love sucking cock. I love chocolate. You think I was going to pass up the two of them together?”

“Point made,” I conceded.

“I used to sit across from him,” Sharon said, “when we went out for ice cream, and tried to see how sexy I could eat it for him.” She proceeded to demonstrate by sliding the spoonful of ice cream slowly into her mouth, twirling her tongue around it. Almost caressing it between her lips.

“Works better with a cone though,” she said between bites.

“I imagine so,” I replied. It was working fine for me as it was, though. I couldn’t keep my mind off the thought of Sharon’s lips wrapped around a cock, giving it the blowjob of a lifetime. My pulse went up a notch. Two notches, actually.

“So what else have you tried?” I asked.

“Um,” Sharon mused. “We thought about honey once, but never got around to it. We did beer, but that was unintentional.”

“Unintentional?”

Sharon grinned a little.

“I spilled a beer on myself one night when I was wearing a t-shirt and no bra. So my breasts were soaked. Allen pulled the t-shirt off and ‘cleaned up’ the beer.”

“Sounds like a good way to clean things up!”

“Oh, you bet! Not as good as taking a shower together.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Yeah, you said late at night was the best time to take a shower in the dorms,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” Sharon agreed. “We’d wait until the floor was quiet. Sometimes that meant three or four in the morning. Allen would make sure the coast was clear while I stripped down to a robe in your room.”

“Our room? Where was I?”

“You didn’t wake up!” Sharon answered, laughing. “You’re a really sound sleeper, Joe. As long as I didn’t turn on the light, you wouldn’t move.”

“Apparently I’m too sound a sleeper,” I groused. Sharon chuckled.

“I didn’t mind,” she said. “By the time Allen was back, I was ready to go. He’d strip and put on his robe and we’d head down to the shower. He’d hang his robe over mine, so as long as we were quiet, we wouldn’t get caught.”

“I can’t imagine you being quiet during sex.”

“I do tend to make a lot of noise,” Sharon admitted. “But we figured that the noise from the shower would cover some of the sound. We also thought we’d hear anyone opening the door to the bathroom and that’d give us a chance to freeze until they left. Since those shower curtains almost go all the way to the ground, no one would notice unless they got close.”

“Did you ever get caught?” I asked.

“Nope! Though someone did come in once. I was down on my knees, sucking Allen, when the door opened. Allen just got quiet and after a while, the guy left.”

“And the whole time you were blowing Allen.”

“You bet. Allen came as soon as the guy left.” Her satisfied smile caused me to laugh.

“So,” I asked, getting a little daring, “do you spit or swallow?”

“Swallow, of course,” Sharon answered. “Why would any woman be rude enough to spit?” I just shrugged my shoulders.

“Besides,” Sharon continued. “I liked feeling Allen come. And I like giving blowjobs.”

“I’ll bet you’re good at it,” I commented.

“Absolutely.”

A pause settled, but I was buzzing. I hadn’t had sex in months, and now an attractive woman was openly talking about giving blowjobs with me. I didn’t care that the woman was a friend. I wanted her to continue.

“So what makes you good at it?” I asked.

“Enthusiasm, mostly. Also, Allen was willing to let me practice a lot.”

“Must have been oh so rough to let you,” I commented, a bit of drollness in my tone.

“Yeah. Pretty much every time we got together, I went down on him. Either as foreplay or the main event.”

“Did he return the favor?”

“Sometimes. But I don’t enjoy receiving that much.”

“Why?”

“I tend to . . . jerk is probably the best word. I tend to jerk quite a bit when I come. I was constantly worried I’d smash Allen’s nose. Worrying kind of takes away from the experience.”

“I imagine so.” I paused for a moment before continuing.

“Maybe he should have held your hips down,” I said. “You know, with his hands.”

“Oh he did that. I still buck quite a bit,” Sharon said. “Besides, I liked it better when he used his fingers as well as his tongue.”

“That would make it hard to hold your hips,” I stated.

“No kidding,” Sharon shot back. “Besides, what Allen could do with his fingers. Mmm, mmm! I’ve tried to touch myself the same way he used to do, but it’s never quite the same. The man is a magician.”

“Or musician,” I said. “Allen and his skin flute.”

Sharon groaned and rolled her eyes.

“It’s too late for bad puns,” she said. She was right. It was getting late.

“I need to get going,” I said. Sharon nodded in agreement. I helped her clear the dishes to the kitchen sink and then we walked to the door.

“You need to return the ring tomorrow, Joe.”

“Well, yeah, I know I should. But I really haven’t wanted to think about that ring. It’s been nice simply to forget that it’s in the back of my sock drawer.”

“You need to. You won’t be past Alicia until you do.”

“It’s just so . . . so . . . final. It makes me feel alone.”

“Return the ring,” Sharon ordered. “Then drive on up. I’m not working tomorrow. I’ll be here and you won’t have to be alone.”

“Okay,” I agreed. We exchanged goodnight hugs and I drove home, vaguely restless and on edge. I didn’t sleep well that night.

I did return the ring in the morning. It actually wasn’t hard driving down to the store. Getting out of the car . . . lead weights made their appearance. I trudged in and up to the counter. I didn’t fumble much putting the box on the counter. I couldn’t look at it once it was out. I just stared across the store at nothing until a clerk finally came over to help me.

Since it was within ninety days of purchase, they just refunded my money and didn’t ask any questions. I was glad they didn’t. I just tucked the transaction receipt in my pocket and got back in the car. I was in a daze until I got to Sharon’s.

Sharon didn’t ask any questions either. At least not serious ones. She led me over to the couch and once again, just sat and held me. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t speak. Sharon held me throughout.

Eventually, we did talk. About all the little nothings that make up a day and a week and sometimes a life. Sharon fed me lunch and gave me a glass of wine, but just one. After lunch, she threw The Blues Brothers on the VCR and by the end, I was mostly laughing. Too soon, it was over and it was time to go home.

Sharon walked me to the door. She gave me a long hug, which I greedily returned. Then Sharon kissed me on the cheek. Tenderly.

“Call me when you get to Tucson, okay?” she said.

“Okay,” I agreed.

I drove home and had dinner with my parents. I packed my stuff and bright and early the next morning I was on the road back into the desert.

* * *

“I’m glad you returned the ring, Joe,” Sherri said. “I’m also glad Sharon was there for you.”

“Oh, she’s good at that,” I commented. “She’s incredibly loyal to her friends.”

“That’s a great quality.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. My mouth was dry. I didn’t feel like praising Sharon these days. The waiter showed up and cleared our now-empty plates. I glanced at my watch.

“It looks like our time’s up,” I commented.

“You’re not done,” Sherri stated.

“No, but I’m out of money,” I replied. Sherri stared at me, unflinching. Then she slowly nodded.

“Excuse me for a moment?” she asked. I nodded. Sherri then got up and found our waiter who pointed her toward one end of the foyer. I knew the bathrooms were in that direction, so I settled back and drank more of my wine. Several minutes later, I watched Sherri walk back toward me. She was as spectacular from the front as she was from behind. She slid back into her seat and smiled at me.

“I called the agency,” she began, “and told them I wasn’t going to take any more dates tonight.”

“And they agreed?” I asked, surprised.

“Why wouldn’t they? I’m an ‘independent contractor,’ not an employee,” she answered.

“What??”

“It makes me responsible for my own taxes and legal concerns, not them. But the agency is my problem, Joe. Don’t worry about them.”

“Okay. But . . . why?”

“You need to keep talking,” Sherri said. “Like I said, Allen was right. You need to write over the old memories with something better. That will be easier to do once you’ve replayed them.”

“That didn’t answer my question—why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.”

“That’s it?” I exclaimed.

“That’s enough,” Sherri answered. “At least for me.”

I just stared at Sherri, meeting her eyes. She didn’t blink. After a while, she smiled. Her eyes softened when she did, but there was still iron behind them. I slowly nodded, conceding.

--Fin--

© 2005, all rights reserved.

Read the next chapter in this story: Chapter Four

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