Free Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3) by Eloise Spanks

shut off the voice recorder, then hesitated and let it play. The birds sounded happier in California.
    “Good morning,” came a voice, groggily, out from the tinny speaker of the recorder. Mr. Irldale. And I heard a long yawn that was me, and then the sound of the recorder being fumbled with, then switched off. I was left in the silence of the apartment, on a Tuesday, ten a.m., the sun still low, the window panes pure glare, robbing me of a view. How could things get better for me, the pessimist? I rewound.
    “Good morning,” Mr. Irldale said.
    I rewound.
    “Good morning.”
    I rewound.
    “Good morning.”

SEVEN INVITED, AGAIN
    So. If I returned from L.A. with a view of the good life, of fidelity, closeness, success, and family, how did I then reevaluate my own life and relationships?
     
1. I told my ex he’d need to watch our son for another week, pretending to still be in L.A., ostensibly so I could work.
     
2. I tied Terrance to my bed, arms
and
legs, and sat on his sweet, sweet tongue like the existence of a tomorrow was just a faint rumor.
     
    I was—and knew I was—corrupted. If all that hard work that D. H. Irldale had put in led to happiness, why not just skip the work and go straight for the physical happiness at least. I sat over Terrance until I came, then lay on top of him where he lay, still clothed—he wouldn’t let me undress him. But I had the opportunity. I undid his pants.
    “Hey. No,” he said, face still glistening from being under me. “I mean it.”
    There was a look on his face that I hadn’t seen before. It made me feel like I was no longer good—that’s as simple as I can describe it.
    “Why not?’” I said. “Let me at least return the favor.”
    He was straining at the ropes now. One of those dominatrix types would do as they please, but that wasn’t me. None of this was my idea, after all. At least not originally.
    “Okay,” I said. “Stop pulling. You’ll hurt yourself.”
    That I
still
hadn’t even seen his
equipment
was a tease. I asked him (again) if he was somehow injured down there, or had something, or if there was some kind of religious reason and he just shook his head with that goofy smile on it. It kind of pissed me off and made me want to extract
something
from him. I climbed back over his face, his tongue at the ready.
    I came again, but didn’t get off of him. Instead, I stayed there over him until my thighs were quivering—and not in the romance-novel sense but from muscle fatigue—and I finally just let my weight sit on his mouth. I rubbed up and down against his lips, his stationary tongue, the sounds of his heavy breaths from his nostrils like a wild animal and I felt myself build and build and impossibly build until I came again, squirting like I had that afternoon in the Drake’s guest bedroom. This time I didn’t even care about the mess. I climbed off of Terrance and fell back into bed, exhausted, keeping the sensation of happiness in my head a few moments longer, just a few, before I became fully conscious of the situation: me riding on a young, tied up man. You could go to prison for a thing like this. I never wanted to let him leave my bedroom.
    “I could go to prison for a thing…” I began, then noticed that Terrance didn’t look so good.
    “Terrance? Terrance!”
    I shook him but he was out cold.
I’ve killed him,
I thought then.
I’ve killed him.
Perhaps the first man to lose his life in the act of cunnilingus. But no, he was breathing. I wiped his face and quickly undid his wrists and ankles and lay beside him, listening to him breathe, my hands shaking from fright as they tried to shake him back to consciousness.
Should I call an ambulance?
I thought. I had the phone in my hand. Would he suffer from brain damage brought on by oxygen deprivation? Would he be paralyzed? I swore I’d take care of him for the rest of his days if he’d only wake up. And if he did, indeed, wake paralyzed, please, please not the tongue. He came to