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OUR NEXT DATE

Jeremiah K. Black

Artcover: Javier Alejandro Cerrada

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

I am on my way to your condo. It’s Saturday, May 19. You’ve been back from Costa Rica for two days and we’ve seen each other, of course, but you’ve been tired, I’ve been tired, I’ve worked, you’ve had your kids, etc. It’s seemed rushed, slightly awkward like it does when we’re apart for more than a couple days, like we have to get to know each other again. Or, if not that, we just need to flow into each other a little smoother. Is it because we’re pushing 50? Trepidacious? Out of sync? Do I tingle and my heart thumps inside my chest and I feel my nerves because the thought of you… of being with you… is so strong and I don’t want to lose you? Or is it just that I want you, I want your attention? I want to wrap you up in my arms and keep you.

I made reservations at The Next Plate for 8:30pm because you’ve mentioned it a couple of times and I’ve never been. I want you to be happy and full. A bottle of Chardonnay so your head feels just the right side of light and airy. Your inhibitions lowered just a bit. I think about looking at you from across the table as you eat. Your lips opening. Your head bent forward over your plate. The front of your blouse hanging loose. Smiling diners and concentrating waiters swirling around us, but I see only you.

It’s just after 5:00 now. That gives us just over three hours. Will it be enough time? Who knows? We might not get to dinner.

The ride to your house to pick you up is long. I’ve driven it dozens of times and each time I picture your face. Usually I ask myself what is she going to wear? The brown scarf? Jeans? Or those tight dark red pants that are so hard to take off? Are you going to meet me at the car? Text me and tell me you’re hungry and we should go straight away? Walk out and slide yourself into the passenger seat? Or will you not text and wait for me to ring the bell? Will you make me work for it?

And then that moment, when my hand is on the door and I know you’re on the other side… that’s the moment I want to burst in and grab you by the shoulders, turn you around, bend you over the counter, yank your pants down, and fuck you as you bark my name over and over again. I want to see your bare ass quiver as I enter you, my cock filling you up, your tits smashed flat on the cold linoleum. I hold your ass so tight I can see the afterglow of pink handprints on each cheek. You can feel the edge of the counter bite into your hips. You can hear my breath coming out in rasps. You can feel my hands on your back, pushing you down. You can’t move. Your legs are forced together by the bunched-up pants gathered around your ankles, my hands have you pinned, you can feel the weight of me on you, and I’m driving into you again and again and again so fast it becomes a blur of sensation. My cock goes so far into you you lose your breath each time and each time you mutter “more.”

That’s what’s going through my mind each time I go to see you. Each time I meet you at a restaurant. Each time I pick you up. Each time we talk on the phone. Every time I think of you I want you naked with your mouth slightly open. I want you to want me. I want your lips on mine. And I want to be sliding your panties down those long, beautiful legs. Most days I think about what you’ll be doing when I get there, Will you be upstairs looking at yourself in the mirror? Putting on the last touches? Will you still be in that plush red robe I gave you for Valentine’s Day? The one you love so much? Tied nice and loose at the front? So I get a peek at the roundness of your breasts? You with a wry grin…almost a taunt, as if to say: “Are you going to take it off me? Without a word? Slip it off my shoulders? Watch it drop?”

Most times I come to you I just want to tear your clothes off. I want you on the floor. On the table. Standing in the kitchen. On the couch. With the lights on so I can see you.