Chapter 8

Barb’s turn:

Okay, talking with Paul about one of the military segments, he used the phrase, “Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”

So Saturday morning is enemy action. The peak of the week. Premeditated. Planned. Anticipated.

After my bout of premenstrual cramps was diagnosed by my gynecologist, she explained options, offering me a couple, first was to endure, treating it with over the counter medications.

“Those don’t do anything,” I whined. I can be sooo helpless when I need to present that image.

“Or we can augment that with a prescription for more powerful pain medication, but I’m reluctant.”

“That would be great, fourteen years old and dependent on prescription painkillers.”

“Third option. BCP’s.”

“Birth control?!?” I squeaked. “You just checked me. I’m fourteen. Virgin. Not sexually active. Nobody’s even TOUCHED me there (little fib) and I don’t plan...”

“Barbara, I’m not suggesting them for birth control. They’ll regulate your periods like clockwork and that will likely get rid of your premenstrual events.”

“I guess we can try.”

So there I was, poor little me, bent mentally, bent physically, and FORCED to start on contraceptives. And you can bet that as soon as I got a little private space I hit the internet to find out about this new medication. Big question – how fast do they make me safe?

Right there with warnings that the pill didn’t protect against sexually transmitted diseases was the statement that the contraceptive effect starts after taking two daily doses.

Two days.

I know about condoms. They make sure of that these days. But I’m thinking exactly how ALIVE it felt when he was in my mouth and I was making him come, experiencing the act with him, his skin against my tongue as it happened and I transferred that thought to having my Paul inside me with a rubber barrier between me and him.

Nope. When Paul and I mate it will be my first time and I want the whole, pure experience. This won’t be, like I heard one girl say, something in the back seat of an extended-cab pickup truck. Paul and I will be in a real bed and we won’t be rushed and it won’t be because I think I need to give it up so he’ll keep liking me. Paul would love me until the day he dies, plus we, well, we both enjoyed what we can do to each other without that ONE thing.

But I’m female and I like to think that since I found my mate I deal with an emptiness until he fills me up. How very feminist, I know, but I’m not following all that bullshit. If he’s filling me, I’m devouring him, drawing life from him.

Just don’t want that life thing to morph into a little summation of Paul and Barb. Might do that later, far down the road.

Another thing that happened on the Day of the Great Sickness. My mind works funny. I guess that’s part of my being bent. But along with formulating the plan for medical action, a story formed in my head, a neat little fiction story where a young girl (Hey, write what you KNOW) is finding her way in a strange alien world. There’s magic involved and inadvertent time travel, and a redhead girl (I KNOW this part) with a dragon who has visibility issues.

Paul says sometimes the story just takes over part of his mind and is straining to get out and onto the page. Now I know what he’s talking about. So like the sugar and water and yeast and flavors in the bottle, I’m letting the story ferment and build up pressure.

So in the interests of my illness, there was a day without Paul. I should have texted him early in the morning. Mistake. When I finally did call, when Gramma and Grampa went out downstairs, I called Paul. He’s a man and he tried to maintain a placid, in control, façade, but I can read him and he was coming apart.

All it took was talking with me to put him back together. I explained. Waited until the next day. Actually spent a good chunk of that day writing. Both of us. Opposite sides of the same little table downstairs enjoying the autumn breeze and typing away like a couple of whackos. Gramma and Grampa came by to announce that they were going into town and that I would be expected to be home by ten.

We used that time well. I love exploring his body. Neat stuff. Fascinating. And very much fun. Goal? Make HIM feel as good as he makes ME feel. And adore him like he does me.

I thought, no, I’ve been told, that my body is inadequate. No tits. (A cup. Might yet grow, but now I couldn’t care less) Flat butt. Kinda thin.

And Paul says ‘lithe’ and the tits are perfect and I have had him worshiping my ass by leaving teeth marks.

And when I left him that night I told him I wanted us to live together.

Saturday we have a thing on the schedule. Paul’s supposed to appear at the local library and talk about being a writer. I’m going with him. I’m over at his house, though, just after breakfast, telling my grandparents that I’m working on this story and we write together.

When I walk in Paul’s door, though, I lock it behind me. “Hair removal day,” I told him. “We planned...”

“Yes, ma’am,” he acquiesced. I went into his bedroom and laughed. There laid out on the bed were implements. There was a personal grooming shaver and scissors laid out on a beach towel.

“The hair’s got to go somewhere,” He said. “You first? Or me?”

“Me, I guess. I don’t have much.” Heck of a time to start getting bashful. Paul’s had my coochie on his NOSE. I stripped and laid on the towel.

Stripped? Why not? If some third party were to burst in and find us, me having my T-shirt on would hardly make things better.

Paul kissed me several times, including each nipple (mmm) and on my pubic mound. With the annoying buzz of those clippers, he cautioned, “Don’t wiggle now,” and he went to work. Didn’t take long at all. He did use his fingers to stretch my lips to get the last strands of hair, but then he whipped out his phone, paired it to the TV in the bedroom, and gave me a tour.

“What’d’ya think?”

“Now I look like I did two years ago.”

“You were this delicious back then?” He smiled. He’s serious.

“Might touch it up with a razor.”

“I bought a couple of those girlie razors, you know, for legs and pits and...”

“Good. We’ll do that. Now YOU lay down.”

He did. Got those kisses, except I didn’t kiss his pubic mound. Got a plum. Sucked.

“If you start that, things’re gonna get wet, baby.”

I giggle. Totally disarms him. If I giggled beforehand, he’d be happy while I plunged a knife into his heart.

“I’ll be good. Lemme snip the long parts.” Giggle. “Hair, I mean.”

“Thank you for clarifying.”

He went from totally hard to almost soft while I did my work. Snipped the hair off close with the scissors. Already looking promising. Oh, who am I kidding? I love it, hair and all, but now, looks longer, cleaner.

“Balls, too,” he reminded me.

Some long hairs there, but sparse, so when the trimmer starts buzzing I’m pulling and stretching the skin to get a good trim, and I have to bend and tug his dick out of the way and stretch the skin to get as close I can.

Last step. “Get on your hands and knees.”

“Huh?!?”

“Just do it. There’s hair under your balls, back there. I don’t want it in the way. I’ve been there before and I wanna go back without the hair.” He complied. I took in the view with him in that position. Never seen it before. Fodder for future investigation. Finishing touches, then, “Okay, look!” I said, angling the phone’s camera to show my handiwork.

“You did good.”

“I was very careful. Those are MY toys. Now! Shower. Bring razor and shaving cream.”

Wash off the trimmings, lather up, quick work with the razor and mine’s good. I think Paul was very thorough in rinsing me.

I sat on the shower bench and went to work on him. Finished up, rinsed with the shower extension hose, bent forward and...

“BARB!”

Giggle. “Taste test.”

“You ... I almost lost control of my knees.”

“C’mon. Let’s dry off.”

After that, bed.

An impossible knot of bodies and limbs as I tried to make every part of him touch every part of me. I caught an idea and started scooting around.

“Where’re you going?”

“That sixty-nine thing.”

“Uhhh...”

“You’re about ready to squirt right now, aren’t you?”

“You do that to me, baby.”

“And you do, too. But if we do this, well, your next one takes a little longer.”

“Good idea.”

He was propped up on pillows so when I lowered my pussy to his lips I could reach his dick while I got myself licked.

I can’t understand those girls I listened to who said they didn’t like sucking a guy. It’s my Paul and I love this. I know he loves me doing it and I feel like when I’m doing it I have the center of his being in my mouth. So I think I’m smiling while I’m doing this, trying hard to concentrate on my task while his tongue is diddling my button. Very distracting.

I lost the battle once. Came. He noisily lapped at me while I held the head of his dick lightly in my mouth, recovering. Then back to work. Such a horrible task. And there it is. I feel the swelling, then the first pulse. Squirt! Second, et cetera. Drained him. Turned around.

He’s got good recovery time. I’m lying in his arms getting worshiped, idly playing with a shaven...

“Don’t move,” I instructed. I climbed back around. Hairless. Every bit of it bare, smooth and ‘mmmm’. Hairless balls just made for me to lick and nuzzle and suck and he’s suddenly hard as a rock and...

“Barb baby, one more time. I will love you forever. This doesn’t have to happen today.”