With my heart full, I lower my head back again and kiss his stomach, working my way back down to his cock. I run my tongue along the beautiful “V” in his side while my hands move toward the base of his cock, where I grip him tight. He practically jumps off the RV and moans. His arm drapes over his eyes, covering himself from the pleasure he knows he’s about to receive. Wanting to taste him, I kiss the tip of his penis and watch it twitch under me. I’m mesmerized, obsessed, I want to see what he looks like when he comes, so I drape my mouth over his cock and suck him in.
“Fuuuuck,” he all but whispers.
Pride surges through me, knowing I can make a man like Porter succumb to pleasure. If he was standing, there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have caused him to fall to his knees.
Scooting down his body so I have more room, I start to take him deeper down my throat. Don’t judge me, but I’ve never had a gag reflex, so taking him deep doesn’t affect me, but it sure as hell affects Porter.
“Jesus Christ, Marley,” he says, looking down at me, awe plastered across his face.
Not bothering to give him time to adjust, I take him deeper until the tip of my tongue can flick his balls that I’ve gripped on to, to bring them closer. With each flick, I feel his hips rise, wanting more. I squeeze him a little harder, but not too much to make him cry, just enough to give him a little pressure. I work my mouth up and down, occasionally licking his balls for a few seconds before retreating, leaving him breathless and begging for more.
His feet move under me and his hands find my hair, holding onto the strands gently as he looks down at me. I apply more pressure with my lips, making sure not to graze him with my teeth. I suck hard and take him deep, stroking my tongue against the underside of his cock. That does it, he pulls me up and grabs his penis, stroking it once, twice, three times, until he orgasms.
Watching a man beat his meat has never really been a turn on for me, but right now, seeing Porter’s body convulse as wave after wave of pleasure washes through him and the low groans that escape his lips has me practically panting.
“Shit,” he drops his hand and looks at me. “Fuck, Marley. You shouldn’t know how to do that.” I would be insulted if he didn’t have a goofy, post-fellatio look on his face.
Yes, I said post-fellatio. Deal with it.
“But that was fucking hot,” he adds, pulling me down to his chest, where he grips the back of my neck and kisses me relentlessly until I am pulled under him, his pants pulled up unfortunately and his hand exploring its way down to my waistband.
“What are you doing?” I joke, knowing exactly what he has planned, and there is no need to play around, I’m ready for him.
“I want to touch you,” he whispers into my ear, his hands traveling under my waistband so his fingers caress my pubic bone.
Hell, he’s just touching me and I already want to come.
For easy access, because I have no self-respect around Porter, I spread my legs. I feel him smile against my lips as he continues to kiss me. Slowly, his fingers work their way down to the juncture between my thighs and slip inside of me. With one long breath, I exhale and evaporate into the roof of the RV, with Porter playing my body like it’s his own instrument.
With his mouth on mine and his fingers taking me over the edge, I grip onto him tightly, knowing I’ve done myself in. There is no bouncing back from Porter Smith. I just pray I can hold onto him this time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
**PORTER**
“People do not urinate on other people,” Bernie says from the helm of Tacy.
We’re making our way through Missouri now, after a quick night at the KOA and a long showing of Terminator. Too bad I didn’t see one bit of the movie, well neither did Paul or Bernie for that matter.
I spent the entire movie worshipping Marley’s body, soaking in every inch of her, doing what I could that didn’t require a condom and a bed where Marley deserved to be made love to. Her whimpers and whispered cries are still ringing through my ears this morning.
What I hate though is how I can’t wipe the damn smile off my face from holding her all night until I was forced to sleep in my tent and she was required to sleep in the RV with her dad and brother. Desperately, I wish I could have held her all night in my arms, breathing in the strawberry scent of her hair.
Marley argues with her dad from her seat. “Dad, I’m serious! People advertise to pee on other people on Craigslist. It’s a sexual thing.”
Bernie huffs. “How does acting like a Mother Franklin Pierce toilet have anything to do with being sexual? Pee is made to go into a John C. Crapper, not across some idiot’s body because they like the warm feel of it. What is wrong with people?”
Bernie and his tirades—classic.
“Actually, Dad, it’s a legit fetish,” Paul says, chomping down on some doughnuts, clearly not scared about a little road trip weight before his wedding. “It’s called Urophilia.”
“That’s not a real thing,” Bernie scoffs.
“It is.” Doughnut particles fly out of Paul’s mouth and into his beard as he talks. “Urophilia is when you are aroused by urinating on others or getting urinated on. It can also be known as receiving a golden shower in street terms. People also can get aroused just from the mere smell of pee.”
Bernie shakes his head. “You see what happens when you let your kids watch music television, they develop a taste for getting peed on.”
I can’t help it, the laugh escapes me before I can hold it in. Bernie looks over his shoulder briefly to give me the evil eyebrows, cutting my laughter off in an instant.
“Dad, music television has not corrupted our generation,” Marley offers.
“The hell it hasn’t. I should have never let you kids watch that request show.”
Paul pumps his hand in the air. “Damn, I forgot about Total Request Live with Carson Daily. That man was my god back in the day.”
“That’s embarrassing,” Marley sasses Paul.
Easily, Paul flips her off and turns to their dad. “TRL has nothing to do with people wanting to be peed on, Dad. The urge dates back to days when you were a teenager. It’s just more talked about now, since sex isn’t such a taboo subject anymore. There are a lot fetishes out there. You would be surprised.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
Worst mistake Bernie could make, testing Paul’s knowledge on random crap. You never do that unless you’re ready to listen to an onslaught of answers, which is exactly what Paul is preparing to do.
Clearing his throat, Paul says, “The question you should be asking, Dad, is what people don’t get aroused over. If you’re disturbed by people peeing on each other, then you will hate Coprophilia.”
“What’s that?” Bernie asks.
“Someone with Coprophilia is aroused when they see poop. Could you imagine, having diarrhea, wiping, and then getting a boner when you flush? Over your own shit?”
“I think I knew a guy in college who had that,” Marley chimes in. “That or he was just really obsessed with pooping. He would spend a good hour in the bathroom clogging the toilet, and then he would come out of the bathroom with a giant smile on his face. He would then proceed to talk about the color, width, and texture of his poop. He was disgusting.”
“Was this someone you dated?” I’m actually kind of appalled when I ask the question.
“That’s irrelevant.” She shrinks in her seat, hiding her embarrassment.
Hey, girls make mistakes in college all the time; you can’t blame her, except for that I think it’s gross and I do.
Paul cuts me off before I can dive deeper into the shit lover. “Then there is Gerontophilia. That’s when you are aroused by the white-headed geriatrics at the nursing home. Lithophilia is when you get aroused over gravel, bet you those people don’t drive a lot. Pubephilia, that one is pretty self-explanatory, but in case you were wondering, it’s people who jerk off to pubes.”
“Nothing wrong with a bush,” Bernie cuts in. “Your mom use
d to have a really nice one.”
In unison, Paul and Marley cover their ears and yell at their dad, drawing a chuckle from him. Point to the Bern Man.
“Dad, don’t talk about Mom’s pubes! She’s passed; she can’t defend herself.” Marley shivers.
“I will have you know, if she was here, she would whip it out for you all to see; it’s not like you haven’t crawled around in her crotch before. That’s where you came from.”
Marley sits back in her seat. “This is so disturbing. Move on from the bush talk.”
I know firsthand—no pun intended, well, maybe pun intended—that Marley doesn’t believe in sporting the weed patch down below. Nope, she likes it nice and fucking smooth. My mouth waters as my mind reminisces about last night on top of the RV. I want nothing more than to grab her hands and take her to the back of the RV where I can pull the curtain shut and share a spare moment with her.
“Vorearephilia is when someone is aroused from eating another’s body parts. Men, keep your members away from a girl with that issue. Lord knows she would gobble your sausage down. Marley I think has Xylophilia. That’s when you’re aroused by wood.”
With a smarmy grin, she says, “Yup, I’m aroused by wood.”
“Chopping wood, dip shit,” Paul shoots back. “Remember that time you humped a tree?”
“It was a dare!” she shouts. “You can’t hold that against me if you’re going to dare me to do it. If we’re playing that game, then I’m pretty sure we should tell everyone about the time you licked the barn cat’s balls.”
Paul practically flips himself in his chair so he’s facing Marley head on with his finger pointed at her. “I never back down from a bet, and you know that.”
Marley has her arms crossed, pushing up her cleavage so I get a better view of it from her low hanging shirt. “Yes, I do know that, that’s why I dared you to lick the cat’s balls, knowing you would do anything I told you.”
“Whatever, you’re stupid.”
“Good one, buddy,” I pat Paul on the back as he sits down.
“People also get aroused to falling down stairs,” Paul continues. “And they get aroused when near crevices and valleys. That’s called Chasmophilia.”
“Well then I must have that.” I say. “Because I love crevices and valleys.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
Paul laughs out loud and Marley rolls her eyes, mouthing, “pig” at me.
The vibration of my phone against my leg stops me from egging her on. I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s a California area code. Wanting a little privacy, I walk to the back of the RV and answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking with Mr. Smith?”
“That’s me, how can I help you?”
Paul and Marley are both looking at me, listening to my conversation, so I turn my back away from them. Tacy doesn’t offer much privacy, especially since Paul has turned the bathroom into an endless pit of his very own beard clippings.
“This is Alex from the Pederson Group. Is this a good moment to talk to you?”
My stomach drops and my skin breaks out in a sweat. The phone call I’ve been dreading but anticipating is finally here; I’m not ready for this. Scratch that, I’m not ready for rejection.
“Yeah, now’s a good time.” I grab the back of my neck and squeeze my eyes shut, wondering what they’re going to say.
“Perfect. I wanted to give you a call to thank you for coming out and meeting with us. It was great to finally put a face to the name.”
Why does this sound so much like a brush off?
“Oh, not a problem. Glad I could meet you as well.”
Alex clears his throat and I prepare myself, trying not to show emotion in my voice when I answer him back. I try not to think about how this was the one and only shot I had at making a change in my life, the one olive branch that was extended my way.
“We had some long discussions about the brand and product and were unable to come to a conclusion.”
Ummm…okay. What does a person say to that?
“There are a few on the board who really enjoy the idea of Man Soap. It has a great scent, it doesn’t leave a film on the skin, thanks to some of the goat’s milk you use in it and the branding is spot on. We’re just unsure of its ability to market to the masses and how it will hold up against all the other products out there for men.”
“I can understand that.” I try to keep my voice low, so no one, especially Marley, can hear me.
“Because we’re sitting on the fence, we decided to send out your samples to some of our test subjects and have them try out the product. Frankly, I’m excited about the product. I’ve been using it all week and you’re right, the scent lasts a long time even when I’m working out, and I’m not dried out by the bar soap. I want to take your brand and expand on it, making holistic hygiene products for men—and I mean the real kind of men, like lumberjacks. I think it’s an avenue that hasn’t really been ventured down yet. We just have to make sure it would be widely accepted between men and women. We want to make sure it works for the average man and that women want to flock to it.”
“I get that completely. I’m excited to hear what they say.” That’s a lie; I want to throw up from the thought of someone else judging my product.
Making soap is probably not what you pictured me doing out on the farm, especially given the beard, muscles, and plaid shirts, right? I get it; I don’t fit the build for the average soaper, but I got into it when I was researching about what else to do with goat’s milk when you have an abundance of the product and not enough demand. I came across soap made from goat’s milk, so I gave it a try. I spent many hours learning about different essential oils and fragrances that would make the soap smell long lasting and manly at the same time. There were some good batches and some really terrible ones. Luckily, it was just Bernie and me testing them out at the time. One bad batch left us smelling like asparagus pee and violets. It wasn’t very flattering.
After a lot of practice and finding the perfect combination of oils with the fragrances of caramel woods, black amber, black tie, and my secret, a dash of coffee, the overall product turned into Man Soap, a natural and organic soap for the manly man.
I kept the new venture to myself, well, besides telling Bernie, since I was using the goat’s milk from his goats, and I went to farmer’s markets to sell the soap, to see if there was any interest outside of Bernie and me. Once I realized I was selling out every weekend in the summer, I decided to take it the next step and contact some investment groups. Pederson was the one and only group that got back to me. The one and only shot I had at making this venture into something profitable.
Two weeks ago, they called me to come out to California. Because it was around the time Paul wanted to drive out to California, I had to tell him my plan. He uses the soap back home now and Savannah absolutely loves it. That was why she went shopping for me, as a thank you.
When I met the investors in California, I was intimidated, but to ease my apprehension, they gave me a tour of one of their more popular farms, where I was introduced to their flock of goats. After the tour, I presented my soap and went into detail about the positive effects of using goat’s milk. I thought I did a good job representing the brand I created and convincing the group about Man Soap’s positive attributes, but probably not enough, since now they’re on the fence.
I’ve never put myself out there like this and it’s terrifying. I want something more for me, more for Bernie, and more for the farm; this is our one chance. I refuse to end up like my father, a waste of a life.
“We are going to ship out the samples and testers will have a week to give us back their opinions. We should have an answer for you soon. I know it’s not what you exactly wanted to hear, Porter, but there is still a lot of hope. I’m pulling for you, man. I only like to promote products I can get behind, and this is one I would slap my name on if I could.”
“That means a lot to me, thank you, Alex.”
“Of course, we’ll be in touch. Hang tight, brother.”
“Have a good one.” I hang up the phone and stare at it for a second before turning back around to the eyes that I can feel beating down on me.
Taking a deep breath and calming my beating heart, I face Paul first, his eyes full of excitement. “Was that the group you were talking to?”
So much for keeping this a secret. Before Paul can say any more, I nod and say, “I don’t want to get into it right now.” I give him the shut your mouth stare-down and luckily, he picks up on what I’m throwing down. I want to think it’s from all the years we spent by each other’s side, but instead, I know it’s the low growl that pops out of my throat. The growl that pretty much lets Paul know if he speaks of my phone call again I’m going to gnaw off his nose like a rabid raccoon.
“What group are you talking to?” Marley asks.
I sit back in my seat and pocket my phone. “Nothing, really.” I clear my throat. “So, where were we? Foot fetishes?”
I ignore the annoyed look Marley gives me and listen to Paul go on about all the other ways people can become aroused. Basically, what I leaned from this conversation is that humans are sick fucks. I tune him out a bit and look out the window, studying the landscape of Missouri.
It’s funny how quickly the outside can change from one state to another. Desert terrain took up the land in California, Arizona, New Mexico, and portions of Texas. Then it changed into grasslands with giant energy-creating windmills. And now that we are in Missouri, trees are starting to pop up on the side of the road, something I feel like I haven’t seen in a while. The further north we go, the more green it gets. Fascinating.
I like to believe I’m thinking about the terrain but in all honesty, my heart is about ready to explode from nerves. I’ve imagined that phone call many nights and I never expected it to end like that. My future lies in some product testers hands. What if they don’t like it? What if they mock the idea? Is the Pederson Group just sparing me a little time before they crush my hopes? I like to believe I’m a strong enough man to handle this kind of pressure, but I’m not.