While I don’t see the circumstances of how I got here as similar, the emotions are still the same. I’ve been left with acomplicated relationship with my body. And haven’t wanted sex in the months since I left the club.
In the beginning, Karlie laughed and told me I’d be crawling the walls not having sex after it being offered on tap in the clubhouse. At the time, I laughed it off, told her it was too much of a good thing, and that I was going to be abstinent for a while.
Now, I realize it is so much more than that. It’s about taking time to figure out what I want my future interactions with sex to look like, feel like, or be with.
“Maybe you just start with yourself,” I mutter. “It’s okay to do this.”
I’m not sure why I feel the need to say those things out loud. But speaking them into existence feels important.
I close my eyes again, and Jackal and Garrett are both right there.
Jackal is wearing one of those mechanic’s overalls in a blue color. The top half is unzipped and off his shoulders, the arms tied around his waist. There are smears of oil on his chest and cheek and sweat beads on his pec.
Garrett, on the other hand, is wearing denim jeans that sit low on his waist and hug the curves of an ass that suggests he loves squats. He’s bent over the front of the car, head beneath the hood, and sweat glistens on his shoulders and the trail down his spine.
His coat lies on the bed next to me. I’d put it there to remind myself to return it to him after he put it over my shoulders the night he fitted the cameras. There was a hint of tenderness in his actions, but also in his eyes as he did it. It softened his features, made him look a little less angry. I feel a twinge of embarrassment when I give into temptation and pull it closer so I can smell his musk and cologne.
It makes this feel a little less…lonely.
Slowly, I circle my clit. I know how to get myself off quick. That’s never been a problem. Some of the bikers are less than collaborative when it comes to sex. They’re racing from start to finish in the shortest possible time that givesthemmaximum payoff. Some of the younger bikers were a bit more generous. Smoke and Grudge enjoyed the challenge of making a woman come as part of the whole sex thing. Butcher couldn’t give a fuck. The number of blow jobs I’ve given on my knees in various clubhouse corridors, not even making it to the privacy of their room, is too large to count. Sometimes, they wouldn’t even touch me or kiss me. The only parts of us that would connect was my mouth and their cock.
Taking possession of my own orgasm was a lesson I learned fast. Knowing what got me there in the moment was a way to feel satisfied. Even if that meant taking two minutes in the bathroom after the biker had fallen asleep or slipping my hand between my legs while I sucked them off.
But now, the idea of masturbating makes me…itch.
The podcast suggested trying to rebuild a healthy relationship with your body, but I sometimes feel like mine let me down. Which is foolish, I know, because…well…while I want to be able to separate head, heart, body, soul, etc. into pieces and blame any part of me, they’re all…me.
I sigh and focus on the image of Garrett and Jackal fixing my car. It’s okay to pretend they aren’t bikers, to place them in an alternate universe where they’re normal people and available to me.
They’re just bodies.
I dip my finger into myself. The first penetration I’ve felt in over four months.
It’s familiar and yet foreign.
I groan and remove my fingers. “I’m overthinking it.”
But I don’t want to leave my experiment unfulfilled. I grab my phone and search to see if there’s an app, not porn per se, but some dirty-talking guy. I find one that offers a few free samples on their website that has over two million views.
I lie back on the bed and place my phone next to me and try to relax. For a moment, I wonder if I should attach headphones for privacy, but then, I remember I live alone and I can do what I want.
That spurs me to continue.
A low, velvety voice spills into the room. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “I want you to get comfortable for me. Lie back.” A pause. “There you go.”
I raise my eyebrows at the way his unexpected charm ripples through me.
“I want you to slide your fingers between those pretty legs of yours.”
“If you say so,” I mutter.
I slide my hands back beneath the waistband of my pajamas and touch myself again, just easing my finger over my opening.
“That’s it,” the man purrs. “I want you touching yourself becauseyouwant to. Not for me, although, damn, it’s hot watching you touch yourself there.”
It’s a surprise how believable it is. After all the porn I’ve seen in the clubhouse, there’s something a little more honest about this, a little less objectifying.
My thighs open a little wider, and I press the heel of my palm against the heat and pressure building.
