I dream of hard cock.
Of my sopping wet pu**y.
I dream of his fingers inside me, caressing my most sensitive spots. I picture his c**k as it pushes past my wet folds and plunges into me for the first time, giving me the best orgasm of my life.
It’s the perfect fairy tale ending.
Chapter Seven
MyFirstFairyTaleDate
I JOLT awake, not sure where I am for a moment. A breeze passes over my hot sweaty body and I smell the sea.
I’m on Saint Thomas. I’m on Saint Thomas and… I have a date with Vaughn Asher! I jump up and check the time. Only eight. An hour is not great, but it will do.
My bottoms are still missing after my solitary orgasm and my fingertips slide between my legs automatically. I’m still slick. I suck in a breath as the tingling starts again. But there’s no way I’m going to masturbate. If Vaughn Asher wants to have sex with me tonight, I want to be damn sure I come when it happens.
A cold shower takes care of my wanting and leaves my whole body with chills. My ni**les are perky and hard when I slip the yellow sun dress over them. No bra tonight.
I look down at my pathetic pair of tighty-whitie underwear, wishing I could go commando on the bottom too, but I can’t. That really sends the wrong message when you’re wearing a dress, not to mention when you’re on a first date.
I reluctantly pull the underwear on. They are not so bad, really, I’ve seen girls at the gym wear these. Not the men’s variety—they were always some cute color and they were shaped for a woman’s hips. But these are not so different.
The front sags over my pubic area and no matter how many ways I try to fold the waistband over, the ass sags too.
I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.
I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.
I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.
My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?
I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My br**sts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.
I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.
Cute.
I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.
But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.
If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.
I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and f**k.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.
Never a star.
“Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”
I kick my leg up and smack my butt with my shoe. “A reminder,” I tell the cute face staring back at me. “A reminder that life is what you make it. Happiness is a #Hashtag. You do not look like Bebe and that’s OK because you look like you.”
Do I have this pep talk often?
Yes. I admit I do.
It’s not Bebe’s fault she’s beautiful. Plus, she’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends for years and never once has she ever made me feel inferior even though she excels at everything she does. She’s always supported me. She’s always been there when things were falling apart. She never once questioned my past choices and she stood by me through all of it.
It’s not her fault I’m so messed up.
I shake my head and my perfectly straight hair gently laps at my face.
“Snap out of it!”
And then I paint on my trademark smile and after a few seconds, it’s real.
I’m going on a date with Vaughn Asher.
When I glance at the clock it’s quarter to nine and I decide to head out early just in case I get lost. I sorta know where the Sunset Cove Beach is—on the other side of the lazy river—but I’m not sure which path to take to get there.
When I open the door the fragrant flowers mixed with the sea air bathe me in peace. This place really is something else. It’s one of the oldest resorts on the island, but they take very good care of it. All the bungalows are updated with modern fixtures and electronics, the staff is friendly and attentive, and all the pools and beaches are immaculate. Never in a million years would I be able to afford this vacation.
Hell, I’m pretty sure this one is even out of Bebe’s price range now that she’s on her own. Her family is not super rich, but they are well-off. And Bebe had every opportunity growing up. But her parents believe in hard work and pulling yourself up on your own. Her family paychecks stopped the day she graduated from med school last May. She’s adjusted well. Not like some trust-fund kids. She knew it was coming and planned for it all through undergrad and when she was accepted into the physical therapy program at the University of Colorado Health Science Center, she roomed with three other students in a crappy neighborhood the entire time. She saved most of her living expenses and now that she’s an actual licensed physical therapist with an actual paying job at a local gym in Denver, all that scrimping and saving is gonna pay off.
Of my sopping wet pu**y.
I dream of his fingers inside me, caressing my most sensitive spots. I picture his c**k as it pushes past my wet folds and plunges into me for the first time, giving me the best orgasm of my life.
It’s the perfect fairy tale ending.
Chapter Seven
MyFirstFairyTaleDate
I JOLT awake, not sure where I am for a moment. A breeze passes over my hot sweaty body and I smell the sea.
I’m on Saint Thomas. I’m on Saint Thomas and… I have a date with Vaughn Asher! I jump up and check the time. Only eight. An hour is not great, but it will do.
My bottoms are still missing after my solitary orgasm and my fingertips slide between my legs automatically. I’m still slick. I suck in a breath as the tingling starts again. But there’s no way I’m going to masturbate. If Vaughn Asher wants to have sex with me tonight, I want to be damn sure I come when it happens.
A cold shower takes care of my wanting and leaves my whole body with chills. My ni**les are perky and hard when I slip the yellow sun dress over them. No bra tonight.
I look down at my pathetic pair of tighty-whitie underwear, wishing I could go commando on the bottom too, but I can’t. That really sends the wrong message when you’re wearing a dress, not to mention when you’re on a first date.
I reluctantly pull the underwear on. They are not so bad, really, I’ve seen girls at the gym wear these. Not the men’s variety—they were always some cute color and they were shaped for a woman’s hips. But these are not so different.
The front sags over my pubic area and no matter how many ways I try to fold the waistband over, the ass sags too.
I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.
I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.
I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.
My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?
I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My br**sts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.
I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.
Cute.
I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.
But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.
If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.
I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and f**k.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.
Never a star.
“Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”
I kick my leg up and smack my butt with my shoe. “A reminder,” I tell the cute face staring back at me. “A reminder that life is what you make it. Happiness is a #Hashtag. You do not look like Bebe and that’s OK because you look like you.”
Do I have this pep talk often?
Yes. I admit I do.
It’s not Bebe’s fault she’s beautiful. Plus, she’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends for years and never once has she ever made me feel inferior even though she excels at everything she does. She’s always supported me. She’s always been there when things were falling apart. She never once questioned my past choices and she stood by me through all of it.
It’s not her fault I’m so messed up.
I shake my head and my perfectly straight hair gently laps at my face.
“Snap out of it!”
And then I paint on my trademark smile and after a few seconds, it’s real.
I’m going on a date with Vaughn Asher.
When I glance at the clock it’s quarter to nine and I decide to head out early just in case I get lost. I sorta know where the Sunset Cove Beach is—on the other side of the lazy river—but I’m not sure which path to take to get there.
When I open the door the fragrant flowers mixed with the sea air bathe me in peace. This place really is something else. It’s one of the oldest resorts on the island, but they take very good care of it. All the bungalows are updated with modern fixtures and electronics, the staff is friendly and attentive, and all the pools and beaches are immaculate. Never in a million years would I be able to afford this vacation.
Hell, I’m pretty sure this one is even out of Bebe’s price range now that she’s on her own. Her family is not super rich, but they are well-off. And Bebe had every opportunity growing up. But her parents believe in hard work and pulling yourself up on your own. Her family paychecks stopped the day she graduated from med school last May. She’s adjusted well. Not like some trust-fund kids. She knew it was coming and planned for it all through undergrad and when she was accepted into the physical therapy program at the University of Colorado Health Science Center, she roomed with three other students in a crappy neighborhood the entire time. She saved most of her living expenses and now that she’s an actual licensed physical therapist with an actual paying job at a local gym in Denver, all that scrimping and saving is gonna pay off.
