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“If you wanna know — if he loves you so — it’s there in his kiss — that’s where it is.”

Every girl knows the Shoop Shoop song. Every girl memorizes its stirring lyrics.

Like her first kiss, once she hears them, she, never — not for a single minute throughout her whole life — forgets.

A long-ago girly-girl tune, it goes like this: “If it’s love — if it really is — it’s there in his kiss.”

I am one of those girls. And it is a good thing. Because right now, it is how I know — that he loves me so. Because there is no way in hell, this man would be kissing me like he is, if what is in my mouth — were not his.

** Twenty minutes ago **

As the reader has already discerned, this is a story about a kiss — one kiss. Like all kisses, complications surround it. In fact, for me, it is the single most complicated kiss ever.

The guy is handsome, sturdy, he is the kind of guy a girl looks up to. For him, there are no limits. For him, I surrender. That’s how I see it.

At times, he frustrates me. He has an ‘I don’t give a shit’ brand of nonchalance, some special indifference uniquely male. Sometimes, it annoys me. Most times it is thrilling.

I am in Newark. It is evening. I am alone. I sit patiently in hotel room 111, the one he told me to meet him in.

I pass the time by thinking about absolutes. Silly thoughts strike me, like absolute zero and absolute monarchy. Here, there is absolute silence — and the early stages of absolute obedience.

I remind myself that he is not some absolute stranger. I know him — a little, though not absolutely. That is because we did it — once, well twice.

The sex was absolutely frantic. We tore and clawed one another — absolutely. Then, as suddenly as it started — it ended, as he was called away in the middle of the night.

Weeks passed before I heard back from him. Weeks! When I finally did, it was a text containing the oddest question: “Sheila — how many?”

“How many?” I heard myself whisper. I glared at my phone as if the unusual question was the fault of the device. “How many?” I repeated, glaring more.

Thinking it was past time to get this man’s full attention, I bluntly texted him a bunch of question marks, eight:?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?

He counter-texted a single word back to me: “Seriously?”

His tone, clearly one of surprise, drove me to think I had somehow shocked him.

Exasperated, I counter-texted more question marks, nine this time, for effect, in bold:?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?

After that, he went quiet. I assumed it meant he was either considering the obvious frustration in my responses or, he was gone again. Insisting to myself that either way, I did not care, I arrogantly turned my phone off.

Shortly after that, and par for the course, I grew antsy, thinking maybe a bunch of question marks displayed too much attitude for a guy like him.

With some hesitation, I chilled my otherwise overheated indignation, waffled, but then put things off again, thinking, I still have my pride! I decided to wait, but just in case, I powered my phone back on.

An hour went by — nothing. No call, no messages — nothing! Naturally, I folded and laying my cards face up on the great poker table of relationships, I touched my finger to his number. Predictably, he did not pick up.

Shit, I thought. Now what? My better judgment said warm to him, so I shot him another message, thinking maybe he was just not a text kind of guy. Tapping hurriedly, this time, I upped the question marks to eleven:?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?-?

Something changed because barely an instant later, I received the following: “Sheila — on the eleventh, be at the Hotel Indigo in Newark. Room 111 — 11:11 P.M.”

I waited a couple — well, it was more like half a minute, and then tapped out a warmish response: “Sounds like fun.” I hit send, all the while wondering what this was all about.

After that, he went quiet again, and I figured it was about time for me to check my hectic schedule. Was I even free on the 11th at 11:11? My finger pounced — a little too vigorously — on my phone’s calendar icon

Lo and behold, my ordinarily eventful itinerary just happened to be clear. Then something struck me, and I thought, really? The 11th? Why the fucking delay? The eleventh is…it’s not for eleven more days! For God’s sake! Eleven days! “Hey,” I said out loud. “What the fuck is this?”

My slow-motion girl clock immediately kicked in and the time dragged by. But right on schedule, the eleventh happened by too. In anticipation of seeing him, I did everything he wanted and giresun escort some things he did not want. I did not shave my pussy. He claims it makes grown women look pre-pubescent.

And, though I was sure it violated some sacred feminist commandment, I shaved my legs — baby-ass smooth. I had my hair done, the way he likes, adding some reddish highlights. But, I kept it loose because he likes that too. I wore black pumps, a skirt — black leather. It fit just right, and I dropped a lipstick into my purse — blood red — because he likes blood red!

At the hotel, I stopped at the main desk and asked for the key to Room 111. Without so much as a glance at my I.D, the condescending bitch of a clerk handed it over, explaining in a twangy, insinuating, New Jersey voice, “There’s elevators down the hall, sweetie, and to your right.” I gave her a look, then turned away.

Upstairs, I found an empty queen-sized bed. The room seemed untouched, so I sat down and glanced at my phone. It was exactly eleven o’clock. I waited. Eleven minutes later, I heard the sound of a plastic key slip into the door lock and nervously watched as his tall, lean form passed into my regal presence.

He smiled, but just a little — a kind of half smile. Some would call it a smirk — a half-smirk.

“Glad you found the room all right,” he sort of half-growled.

“Sure,” I daintily retorted.

His sharp eyes scanned the place, and, as if the surroundings he had paid for needed his approval, he nodded. After that, he stepped to the window where, moving the sheer aside, he glanced out at the building across the street, apparently checking for snipers.

He was wearing a light brown sports jacket, which he carefully removed, revealing a shoulder holster encasing whatever those intimidating black guns are called.

I looked him up and down, but unable to hold back, I exclaimed, “So…it’s been kind of a long time, don’t ya think?”

“What do you mean, exactly?” He asked his question as if he were some innocent-as-the-day-he-was-born, bystander.

“Eleven days? You made me wait eleven days! Don’t you think that was a bit much? We make love! You run off in the middle of the night! When you finally get around to texting me — meaning you did not have the courtesy to call — you casually tell me we can’t get together till the eleventh? Today? Really?” Pouting, and looking away, I pretended to rearrange my skirt.

Barely reacting, by then he was busily unzipping a kind of collapsible container; a hand-held cooler he had brought with him. Without even looking at me, he accusingly commented, “You said eleven, not me.”

“Eleven? Eleven what?” I asked, growing more steamed by the second. Blankly, I glared at him. He slipped his hand into the cooler, pushed some ice cubes aside, and drew out a white, mini-liqueur bottle — the kind people order on flights to Ireland.

I could not read the bottle’s label, but by then, the brand was the last thing on my mind. A question struck me, however, and I wondered why he had bothered to chill a liqueur?

He was acting strangely, and if my cunt had not already been sopping wet just thinking about having sex with him, I would have walked out!

“Eleven loads,” he stated, more clearly than I expected. “You got my text, didn’t you?

Nodding, I stood up and was about to shake my angry finger at him, when he added, “Don’t you remember? I specifically asked you how many? Sheila, that meant, how many loads. I assumed you understood. Why else would you be here?”

“Eleven loads? Understand what?”

My jaw dropped. I stared at him, indignantly thinking, I’m here because I happen to be madly in love; because you turn me on! But loads? And what is your point in doing this? Of course, I said none of that, because my voice seized up and though needing the word, ‘load,’ clarified; I was powerless to demand an explanation. Instead, I stood there like a baffled buffoon.

By then, casually reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, he produced a shot glass — clear, not frosted — which he positioned on the marble table in front of me, setting it there with a sharp tap. Disbelievingly, my eyes involuntarily focused on it, my thinking, I had better sit down before I faint.

Ignoring my failing demeanor, he untwisted the cap of the little bottle, which even I could see, had a broken seal, meaning whatever was in it, wasn’t liquor. Then — without spilling a drop — he poured out its thickish, whitish, creamy contents, filling the little glass to the brim.

With that accomplished, he stepped to giresun escort bayan me, seized my arms, pulled me to my feet, grabbed my hair, careened my head back — hard — plunged his tongue deep into my throat, jerked my hair again, and drawing my face away, he demandingly said, “I told you, bitch, wear blood-red lipstick!”

I had completely forgotten it, and jabbering foolishly, I gasped, “It’s in…it’s in my purse,” Glancing in the direction of my bag, I self-consciously nodded.

Letting go of my hair, he shoved me back onto the couch, where, arms crossed, I fumed that I had sat here waiting a full eleven minutes and still forget the fucking lipstick! I was furious with myself!

He grabbed my purse from off the bed and shoveling a pass like a Super Bowl quarterback on third down, he tossed it at me, then stepped back again.

“The blood lipstick,” he reaffirmed. “Put it on.” Lacking the will to resist, I gave him a flagrant kind of look, fished the illusive stick from the jumbled underworld mess I called my purse, and opening my compact — the gold one my Gramma gave me — I applied his cherished lipstick, employing just enough care not to fuck that up too!

He backed off, and settling a little too comfortably, back in his chair opposite me, he watched with apparent interest, as the thoroughly feminine process unfolded, smiling even more interestedly as I blotted my full lips with a white tissue. I hoped to God that I had not gotten it on my teeth!

“Looks nice,” he courteously mentioned. “Why didn’t you put it on before? Do you not want me here?”

What was I supposed to say? No? I want you gone! Hardly!

My legs, raw from having shaved too close and my pussy, drenched like a teenager’s on her first prom night, answered his question. I neglected to say any of it, but nevertheless, for pride’s sake, I squealed it to myself.

“Sorry,” I said, feigning regret. “I just…I just forgot.” He looked doubtful but smiled that inviting smile of his; the one that accompanies the twinkle in his eyes that melts my heart — such as it is.

That’s when he stood up, reached down to the table for the shot glass — and straightaway handed it to me.

I didn’t need to sniff its contents to know what it was since by then, the fucking room teemed with the fragrance of nut.

Taking it from him, I cautiously asked, “Now what?”

“That’s up to you,” he said. “You can start by telling me how you intend to handle this.” He sat down again, put his feet up on the coffee table, and waited — tolerantly.

The smell of his sperm’s sweetness aroused me. Instinctively, I closed my legs for relief, then lifted the shooter to my lips, looked straight at him, and fortified myself by drawing the deepest breath imaginable.

“So, are you saying that because I sent you eleven question marks, this…this is what…you expect from me? That I swig this cocktail, these eleven…?” I hesitated.

“Eleven what?” He interjected, suggesting I say the awful word.


“Say it,” he ordered.

In a huff, I turned my cheek away from him — only a tiny bit, but enough to demonstrate arrogance! Lifting my chin, and finishing his sentence, I said the word, “LOADS!” After that, I even more forcefully repeated, “ELEVEN LOADS!”

My courageous repetition prompted him to raise an eyebrow. I asked the obvious: “You’re telling me you expect me to swallow eleven loads of cum just like that?” I snapped my fingers for emphasis.

“I expect,” he firmly answered, businesslike; “you will do the right thing, Sheila.”

A long moment dragged by, the provocative prop still situated under my nose. All I could think about was my girlfriend, Taryn; about the time she blew the stranger in London, how the taste of her client’s pre-cum had lingered with her ever after. She admitted to me, she hated it, because she hated him — and even herself, a little — for sucking him.

But I didn’t hate this guy. I was stricken by him — smitten half out of my wits! Steadying myself, I raised the frothy shooter to almost touching my lips.

“Don’t,” he abruptly dictated.

“Don’t?” I asked, haltingly.

“Don’t.” He motioned for me to lower my hand, which I did, but halfheartedly, since I had already half-exhausted myself in making the decision to gulp.

“Don’t you want to ask me a question, first?” His brown eyes were twinkling, so I knew it was important.

“Ask?” I asked. “Ask what?”

“Has it even crossed your mind that the cum in the shooter might not be mine?”

My hand dropped like escort giresun a rock! My mind raced to how I presumed he had milked himself — extracting eleven loads, freezing the goo throughout the past eleven days, saving it for later — for now — for me — for this!

“Um…not yours?” I asked, suddenly startled at the thought. “I guess I…that is, I just assumed. I expected that you, that is…for the past eleven days, you…you…to fill this shot glass I’m holding — you saved it up for me…for me to do this…this…this thing for you!”

“Assumed?” He sharply continued. “Assuming gets women into trouble.” My racing mind skidded to a stop, but not before it did its usual slideshow of past assumptions, fuck-ups I had too regularly made — each jam leading directly to the next one, and to the next one after that!

I leaned back in my chair and crossing my legs, asked, “So what happens now?”

“You stop being stupid, that’s what,” he matter-of-factly directed. From now on, you say things like; guarantee me the eleven loads of semen brimming in this little glass are yours.”

Nervously, I shook one of my shoes away, then kicked my foot — twice, before sheepishly asking, “So…um…is it? Is the sperm yours? I’ll gulp it if it is.” I raised my chin a little, play-acting superiority, a kind of statement that I was not afraid to do it.

“Not so fast, Sheila,” he authoritatively ordered, adding, “a girl only has one way of knowing if the sperm she’s about to drink is her lover’s — or some third, fourth — or eleventh party. She has a right to know, don’t you think?”

Vigorously nodding, I agreed. God yes, of course, I agreed! I was the one about to empty the shooter into my throat!

“Should I have brought my handy do-it-yourself home DNA kit,” I stupidly ventured. “Do I need to do a DNA test?” With the question, his smile broadened to a grin.

“How much do you trust me?” he asked, his voice softening.

“Let’s see,” I started, hesitantly. “I’ve known you for…for weeks. Ya think I’d be here now if I didn’t trust you?”

Pregnant hesitation, seeming to last an eternity, followed. Eventually breaking the spell, he said, “Good. Go ahead and drop the eleven onto your tongue.”

Watching his eyes as intently as I have ever watched any man’s, I put the shooter to my lips again, but hesitated an extra moment because he said, “Don’t swallow!”

“Don’t swallow?” I looked at him, puzzled.

“Don’t swallow,” he reiterated.

Silence filled the room with drama and with my eyes still glued to his, I threw my head back, proudly, if apprehensively. I swigged, then, wide-eyed, descended to utter panic; my cheeks burning with hurt, my throat tightening as it fought against ingesting the thick, arctic sperm, my confident glare, vanishing, my expression — turning frantic!

“There,” he began. “Keep it right where it is. It’s time you learned how a girl knows if the sperm clinging to her tonsils is her lover’s — or that of eleven random rowdies recruited from the corner saloon as some nasty gag.”

Had I had the wherewithal — that is, had I been able to talk — I would have told him I had a tonsillectomy when I was thirteen! But with Niagara Falls on steroids filling my mouth and needing to go somewhere — fast — talking was not high on my to-do list!

Frantically nodding, I bobbed my chin up and down like a desperate child. Never — NEVER, had I ever had more than one load of ejaculate in my mouth at one time! Never!

The cold, but rapidly warming liquid just then pooling in my mouth, felt like pearls of heavy mercury. My cheeks ached. I knew if I did not swallow or spit it back into the glass — an unwomanly act — I would curl up and die right in front of this wicked man!

“Hold the cum in your mouth,” he coached, more calmly than ever. “Take off your top — the bra too.”

In disbelief, my eyes widened. Nevertheless, to give him what he wanted, I pulled hard at my blouse, frenziedly popping two buttons. Then, not bothering to unhook it, I yanked hard at the straps of the bra, wrenching it to my waist!

With the little chore accomplished, he stood, and seizing my arms, he lifted me to my feet again. Grabbing my hair he wrenched my head back — hard — plunged his tongue deep into my throat and holding me tightly, he methodically searched my mouth,

That is when the cold tension of recent moments, relented. That is when my body turned limp. That is when I had my answer, because joy replaced fear, and the Shoop Shoop song played in a never-ending loop in my brain, bringing the curtain down on the final act of the little drama.

“It’s there in his kiss,” I decided, because of one, simple fact: a man never kisses a woman whose mouth brims with the seed of another man.

Yes — the eleven are his. They have to be. It is all there, “in his kiss.”

That’s when I knew.


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