Megaballs

  Licking his lips, he glances up at me for a brief moment, and says, “Bon appetit to me,” before he drops his face between my legs and drags his tongue over my aching cleft.

  A guttural moan rumbles in the back of my throat as he takes a second taste, and my hands fly to his head, my fingers burying in his thick blond hair, ensuring he doesn’t stop.

  Spreading my thighs wider with his hands, his tongue laps at me over and over until I’m a writhing mess. I grind against his mouth to increase the pressure that’s building faster than it ever has before, desperately chasing my release.

  “Best.” Lick. “Dessert.” Kiss. “Ever.” Nibble.

  “More. I need more,” I plead, as he traces my outer lips with the tip of his tongue before dipping inside my folds.

  “Patience, darlin’,” he growls against my skin, as he circles his tongue around my clit.

  Then, catching me off guard, he sucks my clit between his lips and lightly grazes his teeth over the oversensitive bundle of nerves, triggering a startled cry of pleasure from the unanticipated yet very appreciated new sensation. Gliding two fingers inside me, he rhythmically strokes them in and out while continuing to tease and taunt me with his tongue. I clamp my lids shut, letting go of his thick locks, and palm both breasts, kneading and working them as the blazing intensity in my core burns out of control.

  Just as I teeter on the brink of my release, Mr. Sexy Eyes withdraws his fingers and his mouth begins to ascend upward over my pelvic bone to my lower abs, peppering soft kisses across my goose-pimpled flesh. My body protests the absence of his fingers and mouth between my legs, but I can only hope this is leading to the ‘more’ that I crave.

  He passes over my belly button and my nipples harden, preparing for his oral assault on them. But right before he reaches my ribcage, he stops and opens his mouth, sealing his lips against my stomach and blowing a raspberry. At first, I think maybe it’s just an accident and he’s trying to open-mouth kiss me there, but the second time the flatulent-sounding noise echoes through the room followed by high-pitched giggling, my eyes pop open and I stare down at him with confusion… only its Fiona’s laughing face gazing back at me and Mr. Sexy Eyes is gone.

  “Wake up, Aunt Finley! Wake up! It’s a busy day!” my niece’s sweet voice permeates through my half-asleep state, seconds before she starts blowing more raspberries on my stomach.

  Busy day? What is she talking about? Where did Mr. Sexy Eyes go? Did they scare him away? Wait! What happened?!

  It takes several times of her blowing air on my belly and making fart noises for reality to set in and me to comprehend that my dream man was just that… only a damn dream. I groan and roll over, hiding my head under the pillow, pissed that both my fantasy and my beauty sleep were cut short.

  “What is wrong with you?” I mumble. “It’s Saturday. Go away. I’m sleeping.”

  The mattress coils squeak beneath me as she changes tactics and starts bouncing repeatedly on the bed, giggling hysterically the entire time. “Don’t be a grumpy Gus. It’s already after eight. You need to get up.”

  “Yeah, get up, money bags. I’ve gotta do something with your hair and make sure you’re wearing at least some makeup before your interviews,” Farrah adds, as she removes the pillow from my face and tosses it across the room.

  “Interviews?” I croak, my throat dry and raspy. “What are you talking about?”

  Morning people like Farrah and Fiona are a strange breed of the human race — ones I’ll never quite understand. How they can just wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to tackle the world as soon as their feet hit the floor, is beyond me. I not only need a cup of coffee to jumpstart my body into functioning mode, but also a good thirty minutes to an hour of silent me-time to get the cobwebs out of my head. Unfortunately, living here, I’m lucky if I get to pee before one of them is in my face.

  Fiona jumps on top of me, wrapping her arms around my chest in a bear hug. “Don’t you remember, Aunt Cinderella? We’re rich! We won all the money!”

  Suddenly, memories from the night before — ones that don’t involve a pair of intoxicating blue eyes and devilish dimples — flood my mind, and I jackknife up in bed, my niece giggling as she hangs on tight, clinging to me. “Oh, my God, we won? That really happened?” I ask incredulously, as I blink my eyes rapidly to clear the morning haze.

  Fiona nods and kisses my cheek, her grin stretching from ear-to-ear. “Yes, silly, we won! We’re rich! We can buy all the microwaves and skillets and spatulas we want!”

  I glance over at my sister, who is standing next to the bed, staring at me impatiently. “I called the local news stations to let them know we have the winning ticket,” she announces, as she grabs my arm and drags me off the bed and down the hall. “They’re all eager to interview you, so I set up a press conference at the shop for eleven this morning. I figured that would give me enough time to apply your makeup and at least get you a trim and a blow dry to help with your shape. I really think you need some low-lights to help bring out your eyes, but I’ve already had to reschedule my morning appointments to fit you in, so there’s no time for all of that now.”

  She stops walking in front of the bathroom and gives me a gentle shove inside while I’m still trying to make sense of words like press conference, shape, and low-lights. My head spins with so many thoughts that I can’t focus on any one thing, and all I really want is for her to stop talking and go back to sleep for another couple of hours, hopefully with my dream picking up exactly where it left off.

  “So shower up, buttercup, and get dressed. Choppity, choppity,” Farrah continues, oblivious to my silent pleas of silence. “You need to call Mom and Dad before we go too. I’m sure they’d rather find out that their daughter is a bajillionaire from you before seeing your face on the national news later today. Oh, and wear something cute, maybe a little flirty. You’re about to become America’s Most Eligible Bachelorette. The guys will be knocking down our door to get a piece of you. Maybe me too. Ooh, maybe we can do a sisters bachelorette TV show…”

  The door swings shut in my face and I’m left standing alone, staring at the flamingo pink walls, wondering what in the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Last night, after we’d checked the ticket for the gazillionth time to make sure we really did win, I was overflowing with joy and enthusiasm about my newfound fortune. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the places I wanted to travel to, things I wanted to buy, how I could help my family, and which charities I wanted to donate to. But now, in the light of day, with talks of press conferences and guys trying to date me only because I suddenly have more money than most small countries, uncertainties and unease churn in my gut.

  I don’t want my life to change that drastically. I mean, yeah, the thought of never having to work in my life and doing whatever I want to do sounds fabulous. Who wouldn’t want that? But being famous has never appealed to me; I like my privacy, and I sure as hell don’t want people to like me just because I have a lot of money. Not that I’ve ever had to deal with that before.

  “I don’t hear the water running!” Farrah screams through the door, followed by a couple of loud thunks as she raps her knuckles against the wood. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes. No need to wash your hair, I’ll do it there. Just move fastly. Slowpoker McJoker.”

  Blowing out a labored sigh, I don’t bother telling her that fastly isn’t a word or that it’s supposed to be Slowpoke McGoke, because let’s face it… she doesn’t give a great goobly woobly about correct usage of words or phrases. And she never will, so it’s just a waste of my breath.

  Instead, I shuffle my feet over to the shower and turn the hot water on full-blast then strip out of my pajamas and step in, welcoming the warm spray as it beats down on my face. Grabbing my purple loofah that looks like an octopus — thanks to Fiona’s insistence that all things in the bathroom stick to the underwater-ocean theme — I lather it up with the coconut-scented body wash and begin to scrub the sleepiness off of me. All is well until
I move the loofah between my legs to wash my lady parts that have been neglected by someone from the opposite sex for far too long, and a tiny moan bubbles up in the back of my throat at the first touch of the sensitive skin. Apparently, my va-jay-jay didn’t get the memo that the dream is over and doesn’t give a shit that Mr. Octopus looks nothing like Mr. Sexy Eyes. All she wants is to finish what was started.

  Pausing for a moment, I contemplate how many minutes I can spend grinding against the eight-legged purple monster and still leave myself enough time to brush my teeth and get dressed. I know this is not the ideal time for taking care of carnal needs, but I was really into that damn dream, and if I don’t handle this issue now, I’m liable to be a complete bitch the rest of the day, and that’s probably not a good idea if I’m going to be around a lot of people. Especially Farrah. I can’t give her a reason to murder me before I actually collect my winnings. Nor can I kill her and spend the rest of my life in jail while my fortune just collects interest.

  Yep, I definitely need to address this now. For the greater good of everyone.

  I close my eyes and lower the hand holding Mr. Octopus back between my thighs as the other flattens against the ceramic tile of the shower to help balance myself. On cue, Mr. Sexy Eyes appears behind my lids and flashes those damn dimples, and that’s all I need. Biting my lip to muffle any moans or whimpers that try to escape, I shamelessly rub that sea creature all over my sweet spot, spreading his eight legs from clit to asshole, until I climax all over his bulbous little face.

  Immediately embarrassed at my brazen, slutty mermaid behavior, I rinse off and jump out of the shower, wrapping myself up in a towel. I quickly brush my teeth and floss, refusing to make eye contact with myself in the mirror, then pull my damp hair up into a bun for Farrah to deal with later at her shop. Just as I turn to leave the bathroom to go find something to wear that my sister will approve of, my eyes land on the purple blob that is Mr. Octopus who I’d hastily thrown on the shower floor the second I’d gotten off.

  Suddenly nervous that Fiona may mistakenly use him instead of her blue dolphin loofah, I rush over, pick him up, and whisper, “Sorry, no more pussy for you, Mr. Octopus, but thank you for the handy help.” Then I toss him in the sandcastle-shaped wastebasket and flee to my room.

  Ten minutes later, with a content smile etched on both sets of my lips, I walk out into the living room dressed in a cute dress I’d bought for Fiona’s kindergarten graduation last year, and announce, “Sorry, I was octopied… I mean, occupied for so long.”

  Teague

  MY MOOD DARKENS with mile after miserable mile of cornfields I pass, the bright and cheerful afternoon Iowa sun mocking me from its unreachable perch in the cloudless blue sky. I’ve driven this sixty-mile stretch of highway between my Cedar Rapids home and my grandpa’s farm I grew up on more times than I care to count, but never before has it felt so… depressing. When I left Dyersville to attend Iowa State University, I had no intention of ever pursuing a career in the agricultural world, but I also had no idea creating a farming app that started out as a class project would lead to tens of millions of dollars in the bank. My mind was promptly changed.

  Every time I’ve gone back to see Grandpa since Growing Good was developed, it’s always been to deliver good news. Even these last few years¸ when the farming portion of Goodman Farms has been operating at a loss, I’ve purposely kept that information to myself, not wanting to stress him unnecessarily, and told him about the continued growth of the app and the profit it turns.

  But today, all that changes. Today, for the first time in my adult life, I’m afraid I will disappoint the only family member I have left.

  Trying to shake off the gray cloud of doom and gloom that’s followed me since landing in San Francisco yesterday afternoon, I turn up the radio and sing along with Kenny Chesney’s “Back Where I Come From,” the irony of the lyrics not lost on me. I don’t listen to country music much now, but it’s one of the only stations you can pick up out here as you get farther away from the city. As a kid, it’s all we ever listened to, and though I still harbor some not-so-pleasant memories of my childhood, mostly associated with the Bingham kids and their holier-than-thou attitude, sometimes hearing a familiar twangy tune brings back a happy memory of me and Grandpa baling hay in the barn or riding around on the ol’ John Deere tractor. Sometimes I remember that simpler life not being so bad after all. Especially on days like this.

  The gravel turn-off to Grandpa’s driveway comes earlier than I’m ready for. I still haven’t perfected what I’m going to say to him, even though I practiced the speech at least five-hundred times during my early flight, the ride from the airport to my loft, and the last forty-five minutes I’ve spent in my truck on my way to see him. I typically come visit every Saturday, so my visit isn’t going to be a surprise to him. It’s what I have to tell him that’s probably going to knock him on his ass. I only hope his seventy-one-year-old heart can handle the fall.

  I pull my black F250 to a stop in front of the old, but renovated, farmhouse and hop out, slamming the door harder than I mean to behind me. Adrenaline hums in my veins as nerves tangle in knots in my gut. I think I’m going to throw up.

  Grandpa appears on the front porch before I even make it around the front of the truck, an ice cold bottle of root beer resting firmly in each of his hands. I can’t help but smile at the sight of him in his overalls and checkered shirt, his arms and face permanently tanned from decades upon decades of working in the fields.

  “Hey, old man. You been staying out of trouble?” I taunt, as I bound up the stairs of the porch, taking two at a time until I’m directly in front of him.

  After we greet each other with a warm hug, he hands me one of the bottles and motions toward the two wicker rocking chairs off to the side. I notice a slight limp in his gait that wasn’t there last weekend, but I know better than to mention it. Yet.

  “Trouble?” he scoffs, gingerly lowering himself into the seat. “I wish there was some trouble to find out here. Other than your visits and Nancy the Nazi stopping by daily to make sure I’m taking my meds, I don’t see many folks anymore. It’s not much fun to get in trouble by myself.”

  “Gramps, I’m pretty sure Nancy isn’t a Nazi, seeing that she’s black and all,” I chuckle and shake my head, then add, “and I pay her to make sure you’re taking your medicine. It’s her job.”

  He grunts his displeasure with my answer. “Job shmob. That woman is as mean as a rattlesnake, spitting her venom all over here about how I’m not takin’ care of myself. All she wants to do is prick my finger and make me bleed, then tries to squeeze my arm plumb off with that wrap-around doohickie. What does she know about what I need?”

  “Everything. She’s a nurse from the best home healthcare organization in the state. You’re lucky I don’t have her move in with you permanently.”

  I lift the root beer to my mouth to take a nice long swig, mentally preparing myself for the direction I’m about to take this conversation, but when the nasty-tasting liquid hits my tongue, I choke with disgust and spit out the mouthful of soda all over my lap. “What in the hell is this?” I shout, gaping at the imposter beverage inside the bottle.

  Grandpa cracks up laughing in his chair, slapping his knee with one hand and pointing at me with the other. “Gotcha, boy!” he roars, obviously quite pleased with himself. “Ooh doggie, that was some ugly face you made. Guess you’re not a big fan of that Diet Coke shit either. Can’t believe people actually choose to drink that crap.”

  “Diet Coke?” I sputter, as I try to wipe the taste off my lips with the back of my hand, frowning down at the brown speckles on my T-shirt and jeans. “Why would you put Diet Coke in my root beer bottle?”

  “To remind ya I can still get ya,” he retorts, still laughing heartily. “And to prove my point about Nancy. That’s what she wants me to drink instead of my root beer. Says it’s better for my sugar level, like she has any idea how sweet this old fart’s blood is.”

&n
bsp; His green eyes twinkle with amusement as he takes a drink from his own bottle, which I’m sure is truly root beer. A practical jokester all his life, Grandpa finds nothing more entertaining than to ‘get’ someone with one of his little pranks. I’d be pissed if anyone else ever tried to pull the things he does, but knowing how happy it makes him, I’ve just come to love it as a part of who he is. Even when it does leave me with an aftertaste in my mouth I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of.

  I stand and waggle my finger in his direction. “One day, old man,” I warn in a playful tone, “I’m gonna get you, and you’re never gonna see it coming. Just wait and see. I will get my revenge.”

  After pouring the rest of the Diet Coke into the grass, I head back into the house for a real root beer, not surprised to find Grandpa still laughing when I come back out. I hate that what I’m about to tell him regarding the future of Goodman Farms is going to wipe that happy look off his face. The shame of my failure claws at me, ripping my conscience to shreds.

  “I, uh, I need to talk to you about something, Grandpa,” I say, once I’m resettled into my rocker, staring out into the infinite sea of cornfields.

  “You’ve finally found someone, haven’t you? I knew this would happen soon!” he exclaims, while scooting forward in his seat, the hope in his voice undeniable. “I’ve been telling you for years, Teague, you can have all the money in the world, but until you truly love someone, it’s all just empty riches. You need someone to share your life with. A best friend that celebrates the good times with you, and a lover that helps you forget the bad. You’ll be thirty in less than a couple of months. It’s about time you settle down and start a family. Surely the business can run itself by now.”