Page 91 of Stroked Hard
“Maybe someone is trying to claim Pocket as their own minion, leaving Bellini without someone to bleach her asshole every month.”
Cringing, I ask, “She bleaches her asshole?”
“So it’s like the halo of an angel,” I deadpan.
“Fuck.” I shake my head. “Moving on.” With my arms spread, I show off my area. “This is it, baby.”
Looking around, she observes my space thoughtfully, taking in the climbing rope, the foam pit, the mounds upon mounds of mats, and the practice platform.
Quirking her lips to the side in confusion, she says, “Uh, there’s no water.”
“Such an observant beauty.” I kiss her head again. “I have dryland training today. Don’t need the pool for that.”
“Dryland training. Do you do a lot of it?”
“Just as much as the pool. Dryland training is where I practice all my flips, approaches, and tucks. It’s very important.”
Nodding, she eyes the foam pit and asks, “Do you dive in that?”
A wicked idea pops in my mind. Rather than tell her, I decide to show her. Without a word, I pick her up, a squeal popping out of her, and toss her right into the pit. She lands softly on the foam just as I leap into the air, conduct two somersaults and land next to her.
“Not really dive in here but flip,” I smile at her.
“That was kind of hot,” she admits with a blush.
I raise my eyebrow. “Really? Well, in that case, I will flip my way around you from now on.”
“Not necessary.” Bouncing in place, she picks up a foam block and tosses it at my head, hitting me between the eyes. “These are fun.”
Being clearly dramatic, I fall back from the hit making sure to grip my head in the process. “Oh no, I’m concussed. I need your tit in my mouth to make me better.”
“I didn’t put my boob in your mouth the first time you faked a concussion, what makes you think I will do it this time?”
I pop up from my prone position. “Because this time you have the knowledge of my tongue making you come two times in a row.”
“Oh my God.” She looks around to see if anyone heard me. “Have you no volume control?”
“I do.” I shout, “Remember the time you took your shirt off—” A block hits me in the head, quieting me down.
“God, you’re so annoying.” She crawls out of the pit or at least tries to. I catch her before she exits and fling both of us back into the pit.
I kiss the side of her face and speak closely into her ear. “Want to dive down a little farther so I can finger you without people seeing?”
Turning to face me, she asks, “Is this your idea of being romantic? Fingering me in a pit of foam while teenagers practice on the other end of the gym? Not very Noah Calhoun of you.”
“To-fucking-ché.” I laugh. “All right, how about this, you help me practice right now and tomorrow night, I Noah Calhoun your ass so hard, you will be begging me to finger you pretty much anywhere we’re together.”
“Once again . . . so romantic.”
“Hey, it’s 2016, baby. Romance is all about dirty talk, secret rendezvous, and attentive fucking. Flowers, candies, and poems are old school.”
“You got me flowers the other day,” she points out.
I shrug. “Hell, I like to be vintage every once in a while. So what do you say? Video me for a little bit while I work on my approach and in return I will romance you so fucking hard tomorrow night.”
Smirking, she asks, “Will you buy me dessert?”
“Baby, I will buy you anything you want, as long as the beautiful pussy of yours is on the menu.”
