Chapter 12: Proposition
The coffee in her mug had gone cold. Clara stared at the dark, oily surface, then dumped it down the sink. The act felt decisive, but the feeling evaporated as soon as she pulled up to David’s familiar bungalow. The late afternoon sun cast long, warm shadows across the overgrown lawn. It looked exactly the same. It always did.
She knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet street.
The door swung open and there he was, tall and solid in a faded t-shirt and jeans, his auburn hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. He offered a small, cautious smile. “Hey. That was fast.”
“I was already dressed,” she said, stepping past him into the cozy clutter. The air was thick with the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee and something else, something faintly musky that she recognized instantly. The smell of sex. Recent sex. Her eyes flickered towards the hallway leading to his bedroom.
“Coffee?” he asked, already moving towards the kitchen.
“Sure.” She settled on his worn sofa, the fabric familiar under her thighs. The silence stretched, filled only by the clatter of a mug and the gurgle of the machine.
He returned, handed her a steaming cup, and sat in the armchair opposite, not next to her. A deliberate space. He took a sip, watching her over the rim. “So. You miss me.”
It wasn’t a question. She looked down into her mug. “I miss… waking up next to someone.”
“Right.” He nodded slowly. “But you’re not alone, are you? There’s someone new.”
Her head snapped up. “How did you know?”
“Clara, come on. You don’t just turn up out of the blue looking like that unless you’re trying to fill a hole someone else left.” His voice was gentle, not accusatory. “So, what’s his problem? Doesn’t call? Doesn’t want to stay over? What’s the fucking deficiency that has you crawling back to me?”
She flinched at the word “crawling.” She took a deep breath. “It’s not a ‘he’.”
David’s eyebrows shot up. He blinked, processing. “Oh.” A long pause. “Okay. Wow.” A slow, understanding smile spread across his face. It was a smile of profound relief. “Shit, Clara. That… that actually explains a lot. All of it, really. The… the disconnect. In bed.”
She stared at him, the realization dawning. He thought this was the answer. He thought her inability to find satisfaction with him was because she was a lesbian. The truth, a woman with a cock so immense it made his look like a child’s, was a secret that burned on her tongue. She swallowed it down. Let him have his comfort. Let him have this simple, clean narrative.
“I guess it does,” she whispered, the lie feeling like a betrayal to Jade, to herself.
He leaned forward, his expression softening into something like pity. “So, this woman. She’s not giving you what you need either? The girlfriend experience?”
“It’s new,” Clara said, defensively. “It’s… complicated. The sex is…” She trailed off, her face flushing.
“I don’t need the details,” he said, holding up a hand. But he was smiling again, the tension gone from his shoulders. The problem was solved for him. It was never him; it was her orientation all along.
An idea, reckless and half-formed, tumbled out of her mouth. “What if… what if it didn’t have to be one or the other?”
David’s smile faded. “What are you talking about?”
“What if I could see her… and see you?” The words hung in the air, obscene and strange. “You know. At the same time. Not like, together, just… I don’t know. You could be my… stability. My normal.”
He stared at her, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth. “You want me to be your beard? Are you fucking serious, Clara? You come here, tell me you’re gay, and then ask me to be your cover story?”
“It’s not like that!” she insisted, heat rising in her cheeks. “It’s not about hiding. It’s about… having different things. You give me one thing she doesn’t. The comfort. The history.”
“And what do I get?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. “The honor of being the safe, boring guy you come back to when your exciting lesbian fling doesn’t text you good morning?”
“You get me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She stood up and walked over to him, placing her mug on the floor. She knelt between his legs, looking up at him. The position was one of submission, but her eyes were blazing with a desperate need. “You get this.”
She reached for the buckle of his belt. His hand caught her wrist, not hard, but firm.
“Clara…”
“Don’t you miss it?” she breathed, her free hand sliding up his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath the denim. “Don’t you miss the way I feel? However ‘disconnected’ you thought it was.”
His grip on her wrist loosened. His breath hitched. He did miss it. He missed the familiarity, the curve of her hips, the weight of her breasts in his hands. He was a man, and she was offering herself on her knees. His resolve, built on bruised pride, crumbled.
“Fuck,” he muttered, letting go of her wrist.
That was all the permission she needed. Her fingers made quick work of his belt and button, yanking his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His cock, already half-hard, sprang free. It was average, familiar, a territory she had mapped out over years. She took it in her hand, feeling its solid, unremarkable weight. Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
She worked him with a practiced efficiency, her tongue circling the head, her lips sliding down his shaft. She heard him groan, his hands tangling in her fiery red hair. She deep-throated him, feeling him hit the back of her throat, a sensation that was miles away from the overwhelming, cervix-kissing fullness Jade had given her. This was manageable. This was control.
“Shit, Clara,” he grunted, his hips bucking off the chair.
She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip. “I want you to fuck me,” she said, her voice husky. “Right here. Right now.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He hauled her up from the floor, his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss that was more possession than passion. He turned her around, bending her over the arm of the sofa, pushing her skirt up around her waist. She was already wet, her body responding to the rough familiarity of it all.
He didn’t bother with foreplay. He positioned himself behind her, and with one solid thrust, he was inside her.
She gasped. The feeling was one of simple fullness. It didn’t stretch her, didn’t challenge her depth. It was just… there. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and set a punishing rhythm, slamming into her again and again. The sofa creaked in protest.
“This what you needed?” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot. “This what your girlfriend can’t give you? A real cock?”
The irony was so profound it almost made her laugh. Instead, she moaned, a high, performative sound. “Yes! God, yes, David. Fuck me.”
He pistoned into her, his pace frantic, his own climax building. She closed her eyes and saw Jade’s face, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her look of rapturous concentration as she pushed her massive, beautiful cock into her. The memory was so vivid, so intense, that her own orgasm surprised her, ripping through her with a sharp, shallow clench. She cried out, her nails digging into the fabric of the sofa.
Feeling her tighten around him, David lost his rhythm, driving into her with a few final, ragged thrusts before he stilled, groaning as he emptied himself inside her.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their heavy breathing. He pulled out, and she felt the familiar, warm trickle down her thigh. She stayed bent over the arm of the sofa, spent and hollow.
He straightened his clothes, the silence now awkward and heavy. He cleared his throat. “So. This arrangement.”
Clara slowly stood up, pulling her skirt down. She felt raw, used, and more alone than when she had arrived.
“You want me to be your backup plan,” he said, his voice flat. “The emotional support boyfriend you fuck when your real relationship gets too complicated.”
She turned to face him, unable to meet his eyes. “It wouldn’t be like that.”
“It’s exactly like that, Clara.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”
She nodded, the momentum of the encounter gone, leaving only the bleak aftermath. She had gotten what she came for, a temporary balm for her loneliness, and in doing so, she might have broken something beyond repair. She picked up her purse, the weight of it feeling immense.