Clutch By Drew Elyse

Cami

 

I finally retrieved my phone to charge it for the night. I could not say what possessed me to do it, but I found myself opening my contacts and scrolling down to Gauge’s name. Only, I did not find it. It took me a few minutes to realize there were no new entries in my contacts at all. But there was a text to an unsaved number. Gauge had sent himself a message from my phone. I went to save the number, pausing when I saw what he sent.

Me: Gauge, you are so fucking sexy. I want your huge cock.

I did not know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. The man seriously needed to be taken down a peg or two. With that thought, I sent him a text of my own.

Me: Keep dreaming.

I meant to tease him, yet, once I finally drifted off, I was the one who dreamed about Gauge and all the illicit things he could do to me.

Gauge

Cami: Have you ever had sex on your bike?

Jesus. Fuck. That damn woman was going to be the fuckin’ death of me. It had been three weeks since the day I met her, and I’d talked to her almost every day since.

When I gave her my number, I honestly hadn’t thought I’d ever hear a damn word from her. I’d already been prepared to let that shit go. She was engaged—albeit to a total fuckwit—and unhappy or not, she didn’t seem like she was in a hurry to change that. I figured the next time I heard anything about her would be from Tank mentioning something. Then, I’d gotten a text from her that same evening in response to the one I’d sent myself from her phone. Even then, I’d anticipated the line of communication going dark real fast. Still, I’d taken advantage of the door she opened.

Me: I will, babe.

She hadn’t responded that evening, and I’d planned on taking cues from her, so it was a serious fuckin’ surprise when my phone went off the next day with a text from her.

Cami: Any club girls thanking you this morning?

She was flirting with me. Shit, she was playing with fire. Somehow, I knew I was the one who would get burned if I played her game, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

Me: Nah. Just me thanking my hand.

Cami: Disappointing.

Me: You want me fucking the patch whores?

Cami: No. I meant for you.

Me: Trust me, you didn’t fucking disappoint.

Cami: Me?

Me: Told you I’d be dreaming about you.

Cami: You’re disgusting. And I am oddly flattered.

Me: You should be.

That was how it unfolded, day in and day out. Sometimes the conversations were harmless. That first day, we eventually switched gears and talked music for a while. Other days, we talked about movies, bikes, random things that happened during the day. I was really getting to know her. It was normal, more normal than anything I’d ever known. Then, one of us would blow that all to hell.

It would be simple, sometimes just one fuckin’ text.

Cami: I hate having a housekeeper. It makes me seriously uncomfortable that she cleans and sorts my panties.

I could claim I tried to be good when she sent that one, but that’d be a damn lie. First thing I did was picture what sort of panties Cami had—I figured lace, skimpy but nothing like the pussy ‘round the club wore. Hers would be classy shit. Picturing that ass of hers in lace, my dick got hard real fast. Before I could fuckin’ consider whether I was making a big mistake, the fucker was out and in my hand as I texted her back.

Me: What kind of panties?

Cami: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Me: Fuck yes I would.

There wasn’t an immediate response, but I didn’t need one. Just the image my mind conjured up of her in lace, moving the material aside so I could fuck her while the little panties stayed on, had me close to blowing my fucking load. Her teasing only pushed me closer. Then, my phone went off again.

A picture. She sent me a fuckin’ picture of a pair of red lace panties laid out on top of what appeared to be a fuckin’ drawer full of similar folded pairs in different colors. I shot off in my hand at the sight. It was not the last time I called that picture up either.

I felt like a pubescent fuck who recently discovered the joy of coming. I hadn’t masturbated so much since I was a teenager, but fuck if I could stop. One flirty text from her, one thought of that picture, or any of the mental images I cooked up, and I was bringing myself there again. I told myself more times than I could count that I could grab one of the girls and have her help with the problem, but none of them held any appeal. I didn’t want just any warm pussy to sink into, I wanted fire. I wanted a girl who had me aching before I even touched her.

I wanted Cami.

The moment at hand had me dreaming up a whole new set of images. Had I ever had sex on my bike?

Me: No. Never had a woman on my bike.

Though, that seemed like something that needed rectifying.

Cami: Like, at all? Or sexually speaking?

Me: At all.

Cami: Seriously?

Me: Ain’t puttin’ random pussy on my bike.

With the exception of my mom—who would “never, ever do it”—or a woman I at least planned to make my old lady, no chick was getting on my baby. I’d give her a ride on my bike, though. Whatever kind she wanted.

Of course, Cami was the type of woman I would seriously consider making my old lady.