Chapter 62: Chapter 62

Seriously. What is this stuff?” Jeff rubs his fingers over the top of my cheap-ass, dime-store mule. “Naugahyde,” I say, pushing my shoulders back,

showing off my conical boobs and my pink fuzzy sweater. “Nauga-what?” It does not escape my notice that his finger briefly slips beneath the band of fake plasticine leather to stroke my bare skin. His touch sizzle-pops up my calf, burns a line of fire behind my knee and tickles slowly up my inner thigh. The sensation lands with a

lazy, warm flex in my pussy.

Nether lips fat with blood and slick with juices are forcing me to straighten my legs and sharpen my focus. We have a costume party to get to. We have a hope- fully future-boss for me to woo. We do not have time for…dirty things.

“Naugahyde.”

“Never heard of it.” His hand circles my ankle like I’m made of matchsticks. It never fails to startle me how big his hands are.

He’s dressed like a greaser so when he waggles his eyebrows at me, I pretend to swoon. Only I don’t have to pretend so much.

“I guess nowadays we call it pleather. But back in the day…” I have chosen to dress as a ’70s house- wife, picking out a very Mrs. Kravitz ensemble à la “Bewitched.” “…they called it naugahyde.”

His hand has meandered up my calf and is cupping the back of my thigh. Lightning stabs my skin, electricity skitters in my blood. He strokes me with a single finger and I fear I might come.

We haven’t even left the house and I’m coming undone.

“I think my grandmom had a chair covered in this stuff.” He says “this stuff” but is not touching my shoe. He is touching the tops of my thighs, having raised my navy-blue polyester, elastic-waisted skirt. It is a hideous skirt. It is a horrid skirt. And it is now shoved around my waist like the world’s thickest belt as my boyfriend presses his face to my oversized white panties.

“Oh, fuck,” I say.

“You seem nervous,” he says.

I swallow hard and hear my throat click. We should be going…leaving…on the road. Instead he is eyeing up my grandmom knickers like they’re from a fine

department store. “I am,” I admit.

“You’ll do good. You’ll do great. You pay attention to detail,” he says and pushes a finger under the leg of my panties. His fingertip skates along my outer lip and I hold my breath. His fingertip pushes into my slick folds and he touches me for real. That breath slips free of me like sinuous smoke.

“Why do you think that?” I thread my fingers into his slicked-back hair, messing it up, liking the half grin he gives me. That half grin punches me right in the gut. It puts me right on edge, the bad-boy, you’ll-pay-for-that gaze he gets when I’ve been bad.

“Because you pay attention to detail. And you’re good at what you do. You’ll make him proud. The man is no dummy. You’ll get the job.”

“I don’t know…”

“Hush up, Jill. Listen to the voice of wisdom. I mean, you’ve even put on the giant old-lady panties to match your hideous ensemble.”

I snort, but the laughter turns to a sigh when he tugs said underpants down and parts me with his tongue.

“We have to go. We have to go.” I say it like a chant.

“We will, we will…” he answers, mocking me. Covering my pussy with his hot mouth. He nudges the split of me with his tongue and my knees sag a little, threatening to dump me out of my inferior footwear and onto my now bare ass.

“You’re mean,” I say, not meaning it.

Jeff grabs my hand and tugs, pulling me slowly to my knees. My top half clothed, lower half bare. He presses his mouth to my mouth, pushing his tongue against mine so I taste myself. “Not mean.”

I grab his now mussed hair, my fingers greasy with hair cream. I tug and he groans and my tummy flexes with that wanting sound. “Okay,” I say. I’m making no sense, but neither is he, so we’re even.

“Turn around, lady,” he grates, and spins me on my knees. Twisting me up more in my own hosiery, my own scratchy skirt, my own giant bloomers.

I’m on my hands and knees, high-teased hair not moving. It’s stiff with hairspray and poked through with two pencils. Cat’s-eye glasses I don’t need to see blur my vision, but not as much as the feel of his rough hands grabbing my hips. He’s teasing me, pressing the tip of his cock to my cunt. And then he drives into me, scootching me forward so I have to put out a hand so catch myself.

“For a woman with fake plastic shoes you have a fine, fine ass,” he says. A burble of laughter bursts out of me and I sag against the arm he loops around my middle. His thrusts are fast and short and brutal. Stealing my breath, scratching my knees, making me feel like I’ll tumble over my messy clutch of clothes and yet…it’s perfect. It erases all my nagging fears and worries and my internal you’re-not-good-enough-for- this-job monologue.

He strokes my clit with the pad of a single finger. Such a big man being so delicate—it’s mind-boggling really. But he moves that finger with the perfect amount of pressure and thrusts so very deep inside of me, driving me forward again with the bang of his hips. He doesn’t withdraw any, though. This time, he keeps himself pressed flush to the back of me, rammed deep in the core of me, and he starts to simply nudge his hips side to side so his cock rubs my G-spot in the perfect way. So perfect my lips go a little numb.

His fingers dig into the meat of my hips, and I gasp. “I might fall.”

“You won’t fall,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you; you’re golden. Jill, baby, you’re always golden.”

And I come. His finger on the tight bud of my clitoris, his cock filling me to the point of bursting, his words a humbling rush of syllables in my ears.

He comes a second later, laughing in that way he has. The way that makes me remember why I love him so fucking much.

When he turns me to face him a moment later, we try to fix it—the mess we’ve made of me. My glasses are bent, my skirt is twisted, my giant panties are snagged on one side. And worst of all, my cheap shoe has broken. He tsks.

“Oh, shit,” I say. But what is one shoe in the face of an orgasm, really? I mean, let’s get real, here.

“No worries. Do you know the best thing about this fake stuff?” He’s forgotten the word again, I bet.

“Naugahyde?” I say, smirking. “Right. Naugahyde. Do you know?”

“What?” I try to fix his once-impeccable DA but his hair bounces back up with irritating ease.

“A little duct tape will blend right in.” “Oooh, duct tape,” I tease.

Jeff winks at me and it goes straight to my girl parts. “Later, babe. We have a party to get to.”