Risky Business

“Ooh . . . ouch . . .” Jayme complains, wiggling her hips.

I’d offer to carry her or help in some way, but I’m holding back some whimpers of my own. Yeah, I’m definitely going to need a shower . . . and maybe an enema. Never thought that thought would be in my head right after sex, but here we are.

On the back porch, Jayme slides open the door, and we see Carlo inside. He’s made himself at home, his feet on the coffee table and a game on the television over the fireplace. He takes one look at us over his shoulder and grins. “I’ll call the pilot and tell him we’ll be late. An hour?”

Jayme points an admonishing finger at him. She’s at least got her blouse on over her breasts, and her skirt’s semi-tugged down. My dick’s still flapping in the breeze behind her. “Not a word. And yeah, an hour’s fine. Let us wash off and find some clothes.”

“And maybe some ointment?” I whisper quiet enough for only Jayme to hear.

But Carlo laughs, so I guess it wasn’t quiet enough.

Jayme leads me into a large bedroom that’s bathed in sunlight coming through the bank of windows along one wall. The king bed has more pillows than your average TJMaxx on restock day and looks inviting as hell. But with only an hour until take-off, plus more than a little bit of chafing, there’s no time to throw Jayme to the bed for round two.

The bathroom is equally expansive, with warm charcoal tiles on the floors and shower walls and a wall of mirrors above the double vanity sinks. Jayme reaches into the shower, turning the water to lukewarm. “Usually, I prefer hotter than lava, melt your skin off temperature,” she says as she sheds the soppy bits of clothing she’s pulled on, “but I think that’d make me cry right now, and it’s just my knees. I can’t imagine what it’d feel like on your dick.”

She looks down at my groin and her eyes go wide. I’d love to say it’s because she’s once again impressed with my size or considering dropping to her knees for me again, but I’m betting it’s because my cock is looking red and irritated.

“Maybe a cool shower, then?” she suggests, turning the knob back to the right.

We step into the shower, both writhing in discomfort when the water slides over us. “I would love to wash you,” I tell her, “but if I touch you, I’m going to get hard again, and I’m not sure I can handle that delicate skin stretching right now. Raincheck?”

“Probably for the best since we need to hurry,” she agrees quickly. “But I’m looking forward to it.”

Thankfully, the shower has both overhead and handheld sprayers, and with a little bit of squirming and total abandonment of my self respect, I’m able to get myself clean. Though Jayme unsuccessfully tries to hide a giggle as I spray out my butt crack, and she looks me up and down. “Careful there, stud, I might want you to do that on pulse mode.”

“Very funny,” I grumble as I use my slippery free hand, which is well coated with coconut scented body wash, to sweep out more grains of sand. “Keep talking and I’ll pin you to the wall and return the favor.”

“Promise?” she asks, biting her lip.

“You’re giving me ideas . . . for next time,” I promise.

With that setting the current tone, we make quick work of finishing up our shower.

“Let me grab us some clothes. She always keeps merch for guests,” Jayme says, leaving me standing in the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist.

I meet my own eyes in the mirror. Today has been one big roller coaster. Not one of the completely safe, but intentionally designed to feel wild ones like at Americana Land, but more like one verging on the edge of insanity. It’s been amazing and dangerous in a way my motorcycle has never been. Jayme herself is better than the wind whipping through my hair at one hundred miles an hour. She blows through my soul, a tornado of possibilities.

“I don’t know if these are going to fit you?” she calls out from the bedroom. I step into the room, finding her digging through the dresser and already wearing sweats and a T-shirt. She holds up a pair of gray sweatpants with a stylized T and a geometric design on the left thigh that match the ones she has on.

“And there’s no underwear for you, so commando it is.” A coy smile teases at her lips, and she feigns being dramatic with a hand to her thrown-back head, “Gray sweats and a bouncing dick, you’ll be the talk of every woman online. Exactly what you don’t need.”

“All I’m hearing is ouch-ouch-ouch with every step,” I say deadpan.