Dear Diary,
I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my work I haven’t been able to find the time to sit down and really fill you in. (You do remember that I finally landed my dream job at Crazy Canapes Catering, right?) But something happened today and I really need to talk to you. I need you to help me try to make sense of it all.
You might recall how angry I was when I last wrote in you. How I ripped you open so wide I broke your spine. How hard I pressed on your pages with my pen, and the way my tears turned my harsh words into blue inkblots. You see, despite what I said in my last entry during the hopelessness that was last summer, I’ve found something I never thought I would find. Something that could be either wonderful or terrible.
His name is Michael.
About a fortnight ago, Crazy Canapes was booked to do the catering for an eighteenth birthday party in one of those big houses in Oak Green. Well, Lesley Baines called in sick this morning, so I was pulled from the kitchen, handed a harlequin costume and sent along with the serving crew.
I knew the houses in Oak Green were huge, but I hadn’t realised the true scope of them. Their short stay carpark is big enough to hold twenty cars, and their garage could hold that again and more. Anyway, I was directed to the back garden, which was christened ‘the arena’ by Leona Reid, and told to do my best to feed and entertain forty two screaming late teens and early tweens.
They were wild! Tearing gifts from the table before the hostess, Mrs Pritchard, was ready, spilling drinks, bursting balloons. A few servers lost their trays, one of two of them having to walk around with their contents down their harlequin costumes for the best part of the day. Honestly, they were officially adults and more trouble than little kids.
It was when I took five minutes behind a giant hedge that I met Michael. I could feel someone watching me as I sipped from a flute of Mrs Pritchard’s champagne, and when I turned around – hoping it wasn’t her, or worse, my boss Clyde – there he was. Leaning against the side of the massive garage, legs crossed at the ankle, something metallic and green in his hand.
Oh, I knew I looked like a deer in the headlights, especially when he cast his eyes down to the glass in my hand and raised an eyebrow. My cheeks burned so hot I wouldn’t have been surprised if they burst into flames.
It wasn’t being caught that had embarrassed me so much, though. It was the fact that the guy I was looking at was stunning, and I was staring like I had no shame. Please don’t judge me, Diary, it wasn’t my fault. He had no shirt on. His skin was tanned the deep bronze of someone who worked outdoors, and his abs! Oh my God, his abs looked like a fresh baked half dozen bread rolls.
Tipping what was left of my champagne into the soil at my feet, I peered down at myself, wondering if he’d be able to identify me once I was with all the other servers. There was twelve of us, all women and dressed identically, so he might not be able to pick me out of the crowd.
But before I could make my escape, I had to take another peek, and when I did I saw he’d pushed off the wall and was headed straight for me.
Awkward. That’s the only word that could describe how I felt. I didn’t know what to do with the glass, or how to let my arms hang. I adjusted my weight so many times I must have looked like I was either jogging on the spot or desperate for a pee.
As soon as he reached me, he started to laugh. The sound was light, and much higher in pitch than I would have expected. He sounded young, and when I forced myself to meet his gaze, I saw that he was. He looked about twenty seven, maybe a bit older, so not much older than me.
“You know, the other harlequin have had at least three of those each by now.”
Such a lovely voice. Boyish and sweet, but with an underlying depth that played with my nerves like a bow on a cello string. His smile was one of those Hollywood ones; wide and white toothed, intended to dazzle. It did its job well, I was so dazzled by it I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Cocking his head, he tried again. “Is this your first gig with Crazy Canapes? They do the kids’ parties here every year, and I’m certain I’ve never seen you before. I’d know it if I had.”
“Uh, yes, it’s my first time. I’m pretty new anyway, and I usually work in the kitchens with Chef Morris. But they were short a server so…yeah.”
“Chef Clyde Morris.” He pulled a face that told me he’d definitely met my boss. “I’m surprised you don’t drink more, that guy is hard work.”
Stopping to let me laugh, he waited until I was done then held out his hand, squeezing softly when I shook it. “I’m Michael.”
“Pleased to meet you, Michael. I’m Natasha. Um, do you live here or…?”
He waved the metallic thing he was holding. My father had one of those! A torque wrench, I think he called it. “No, I don’t live here. I’m the Pritchard’s mechanic. I’m here a lot, but I live at the other side of town.”
My watch beeped, signalling the end of my break. I don’t know how I kept my disappointed curse in, Diary, but I did. It might have been the air of disappointment that settled on Michael that surprised me into inexpression.
Raising my empty glass in a gesture of goodbye, I turned away, heading back toward the garden party. Before I even reached the middle of the long hedge, Michael caught up with me. His fingers dug into my elbow as he pulled me to a stop. Those same fingers clamped my shoulder as he pulled me toward him. He caught the glass I nearly dropped, even though his eyes were closed.
The guy kissed like it was an art form and he was an old master. Soft lips teasing, wet tongue probing, coaxing my teeth apart, looking for a way in. I submitted to that kiss like it was the first and last one I would ever experience. It swept me away, making me forget where I was, what I was supposed to be doing.
When he tugged me back toward the garage, I willingly went with him. We hurried across grass, gravel, concrete, straight into the dark building that stank of petrol and oil. Michael made quick work of the one piece costume I was wearing. Within seconds it was around my knees, and his hands were on my naked breasts.
Shivers ran through me, weakening my legs, making me give him my weight. Sucking and biting my neck, nipping and scratching my swelling nipples. Then my chest and belly slapped against the glossy black hood of a Mercedes Benz, and Michael’s cock was parting my folds, pushing inside of me slowly. I wanted him to go faster, and so did he if his little impatient grunts were anything to go by, but he barely fit inside me. He was big and I was small and not wet enough, but neither of us would be deterred.
I pushed back at the same time as he lunged forward, and we both cried out as all of him sank home. Holding onto the hood ornament, I closed my eyes and revelled in the fast, furious thrusts of Michael’s cock. He fucked hard, leaning over me, wrapping his hand around my throat and squeezing.
“I wish I could pull your fucking hair,” he growled, pressing my face against the cold black metal. There was no slip to it, so my skin just dragged back and forth until I started to sweat. “Dig my fingers right to the roots so I can arch your back and watch your face while I fuck you just like this.”
Even in my lust soaked state, I was pleased he hadn’t done that. There was no way would I be getting my scraped back hair-do as perfect as it was, and there’d be no fooling Mrs Pritchard as to what I’d been up to.
Michael pulled out, stroking his slick tip over my clit, making it throb for him, before plunging back into me. The stretch was just as intense as the first time he’d done it, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. His skin slapped off mine, my sweat soaked body squeaked against the paintwork of the car.
And then I was free falling, each of my breaths tripping over the next as I tried to fill my lungs with oxygen. My legs shook, my knees knocked against the car’s bumper, and Michael made a shockingly sexy noise and whispered,
“Good girl, that’s it! Oh God yes, come all over that dick.”
He drove into me for a few seconds more then with a deep groan he started to jerk against me, putting all of his weight into his groin, forcing himself as deep inside me as he could while his balls emptied through his cock in pulses so strong I could feel every single one.
Coldness washed over my back when he withdrew and left me, but he was soon back, wiping me down with what turned out to be a paper towel, pulling me upright and helping me back into my costume. Once I was zipped up, he turned me to face him.
“I can see how flushed you are beneath all that white make-up. It’s good stuff, it didn’t even wipe off when I kissed you.”
It was his turn to blush then, and I got a sexy whiff of fresh sweat mingled with deodorant when he raised his hand to his head. His hair was black, both on his head and in his armpits. Even though I’d had more than a good look at it, I only noticed his chest was waxed smooth in that moment.
Pushing his hair back off his forehead and revealing brilliant blue eyes he said, “I’m sorry, Natasha.”
“For what?”
“For lunging at you like I had a right to. I should have asked you what you wanted before I even touched you. I had intended to ask you out when I caught up with you but…well, it didn’t quite work out that way, did it.”
Biting my lip shyly I shrugged. “If I didn’t want it I’d have told you no. I feel a bit weird now, but I’m not sorry it happened.”
Jesus, that smile was miraculous! It lit up the dull garage and renewed the twinges between my legs that had been slowly fading. Taking my hand, Michael led me back out into the bright afternoon. “Are you busy on Saturday?”
I shook my head.
“Then will you let me take you to dinner?”
I nodded.
Michael kissed the tip of my nose and spun on his heel, striding back into the garage, emerging a minute later with a mobile phone. I gave him my number, then hurried back toward the hedge.
I haven’t seen him since I re-joined the party, not even when I took my second break, or during the clean-up operation. Part of me was convinced I’d never hear from him again, but he messaged me not five minutes ago and asked for my address. And I’ve given it to him. He’s coming here at seven on Saturday to take me out.
I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, Diary. He’s gorgeous and a great fuck, but I don’t know anything about him. Hell, I don’t even know his surname, not for the want of trying to wheedle it out of Mrs Pritchard. I’m scared that he’ll think I’m easy, and that he’s using me for sex. But he could have seduced any harlequin today, because we’d all taken breaks by the garage, and something had made him pick me.
I’ll be talking to you a lot over the next few weeks, Diary. I just hope I get to fill your pages with good news and not bad. As soon as I get back from our date I’ll give you an update.
Like this story? Why not check out the next installment? Dear Diary: The Midnight Phone Call.
