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Conrad thinks, not for the first time, that he may be a bit chauvinistic. Would that be the right word? Sexist? No...
He’s not sure exactly what you’d call it, but regardless, he definitely thinks he looks at Belly in a way that some people might consider to be problematic.
But not in the way you might assume, especially for an eighteen-year-old.
Since that first night they’d shared in the summerhouse, Belly had been not-so-subtly hinting that she wants to- uh…go down on him. Although they’d only been intimate (as Conrad would refer to it) the one time, he and Belly had been borderline sexting ever since. When he'd gotten home the following night, after he'd dropped her back off at her house, she'd already texted him to tell him she was grounded (he figured as much). However implausibly, she'd been able to keep her phone out of her mom's prying hands (something something "homework over break"). Really, though, she’d just wanted to text her boyfriend.
They’d never intended to, Conrad swears, but every night their conversations ended up devolving into a back and forth, usually starting with an innocent “are you in your room?”. Then Conrad, always Conrad, would eventually become brave enough to ask her what she was wearing, and it would always be “your shirt” or “your sweater” and some pastel-colored cotton panties with a tiny satin bow on the front. Their replies would begin to thin as this went on, becoming increasingly delayed, the implications clear. And each time Belly became a little bolder. It had started with her simply asking if he’d ever thought about it- her; her mouth.
“Yeah”
“when?”
“All the time”
“really?”
“Yeah”
“right now?”
“Yeah”
It had progressed from there, her questions becoming increasingly more explicit, asking him nearly everything other than if he’d ever done it before- had it done to him before. She was fairly certain she knew the answer, and she didn’t want to think about it. Finally, the night before last, Belly had asked what she’d really wanted to from the start;
“would you want me to?”
To which Conrad had stilled in his bed in Boston, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he began to ache beneath the thin grey cotton of his sweats.
“Do you want to?” he had replied carefully, his left hand moving down his bare stomach to palm himself lightly through the fabric.
“yes”
Conrad came thinking about Belly’s perfect little tongue that night, imagining the tip of it doing to the length of his cock what it does to the back of his teeth.
It had all come to a head (pun intended) on New Years Eve, Belly and Laurel having arrived around six, with Conrad finding himself upstairs in his bedroom by six forty-five with Belly pressed against the wall beside his bookshelf full of fantasy novels and signed sports memorabilia.
They had bounced around from room to room trying to find some semblance of privacy, and trying to do so without making it known. They tried the dining room first but had quickly abandoned the idea when the moms spilled into it from the kitchen clutching bubbling flutes and fabric swatches for curtains Susannah just had to get Laurel’s opinion on. They migrated to the game room, a sort of converted basement, next. They were off toward the back corner, Conrad having backed belly into the exposed brick wall beside Jeremiah’s foosball table and his father's tackle boxes. The rods of the table made it a tight fit, but it was out of view of the doorway should someone come down and interrupt- and thank God for that, because that’s exactly what Steven and Jeremiah did right as Conrad had Belly pinned with his hand running up under her sweater to cup her waist. They broke away from one another so fast Conrad almost hit his head on the Tiffany style ‘Billiards’ light fixture hanging just behind him. They both quickly pretended like they were down there grabbing “um, batteries- for…uh, mom’s-”
“Carver,” Belly finished, somewhat breathlessly, Conrad carefully reaching past her hip to the built-in alcove’s drawer just to her left. He blindly felt around inside of it, grabbing the alibiing double A’s he knew to be there.
“Batteries for Susannah’s electric carving knife,” Steven said, somewhat playfully, and Belly felt her cheeks flush damningly warm, and visibly pink. Conrad cleared his throat, keeping his eyes and creeping sly smile trained toward her.
Jeremiah was just standing there, awkwardly, having been looking at the carpet under his feet as soon as he saw Belly and Conrad, alone (and then again after he braved a peek up at them and caught a glimpse of Belly's swollen lips).
“We’re gonna take these up to her,” Conrad said, Belly pressing her lips together between her teeth and nodding, following behind him and past the boys and toward the stairs. Jeremiah gave him a look as Conrad brushed past him, one Conrad chose to ignore, opting instead to nod at Belly to go up in front of him. Once they made it back into the laundry room on the ground level, Conrad hooked a finger into the back pocket of Belly’s jeans, and tugged lightly. She turned around and put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle at almost getting caught, and he smiled at her.
“Steven’s going to kill me,” he muttered, Belly lightly shoving his side as he passed her to inexplicably set the batteries on the kitchen counter for his mother to find and become confused by later.
After that near miss they decided to try upstairs next, now that their brothers were going to be occupied two floors down and their mothers were engrossed in their champagne and interior design.
See the problem was, and really continues to be, that Conrad looks at Belly like a sacred thing. Goodness personified. Precious, in a way he's never thought of anything or anyone- and knows with certainty he never will. He still sees Belly as pure, and innocent- and not in a virginal way, but in a divine way. Perfect, the way only God is described in religious text. A beautiful, warm, golden light; an event horizon defying beacon in the black hole that is his mind.
Too much? Because that’s probably him being conservative.
He loves her, obviously. He can’t find it in himself to say it, maybe because of just how monumental the feeling is, but he’s not an idiot. He's painfully aware actually, in a way that’s, like, a determinate to his everyday life. He’s absolutely certain, and has been for years, that he’s pathetically fucking in love her.
And that’s ultimately the problem, isn’t it? Not just because the feeling has begun to exceed what he’s capable of suppressing, but because it also makes it almost impossible for him to touch her. To defile her by polluting her with himself; damaged and dark and seemingly fatally imperfect.
It had even been hard that night (pun unintended). He really didn’t bring her there, to the summerhouse, for that. In all honesty, he was petrified that she would want to have sex. Yeah he’d come prepared for it (like the good little eagle scout that he was), but he was almost hoping it wouldn't happen.
And not because he didn't want to, or didn't think about it.
Because God, did he want to. And God, did he think about it; in explicit detail, increasingly every summer from the time he turned fifteen. At one point the only thing that could stop his compulsive and ruminating pubescent thoughts was staying completely away from her. And it hurt her, he knew it did. He could see her insecurities grow a little more each time he said he was too busy to go down to the beach with her, or too tired to watch a movie, or that he "already had plans" when they both knew that was bullshit. And even if he had had plans, he would have canceled them for her in a heartbeat, and used to all the time. But he couldn't, not anymore. Every time he was around her he felt like he wasn't in control of his own mind (which he frequently felt, but now it was at her expense). The most mundane things she did would conjure the filthiest pornographic images; he felt like he was violating her trust just by existing around her.
His most predominant intrusive thought lately, largely because of her seemingly endless curiosity, was her...like that; on her knees. Most often she was in the bikini her mom had finally allowed her to wear, her ponytail high, her cheeks flushed from spending all day down by the water. He’d picture how her chipped nail polish would look against the backdrop of his tanned skin, and how her mouth would look full of him; hollowed cheeks and pursed lips, eyes on his. He'd imagine those warm brown irises swimming when she took him deep, and how she'd force them to stay open for him- because he told her to. How he'd hold her head down until he could feel her little fingers flexing against his thighs, a silent plea to let her breathe, and how she'd say thank you when he finally did. He'd imagine her holding her mouth open after a stern patting on the cheek, letting him fuck it while she made the sweetest sounds-
And he hated himself for it. Thought he should be arrested. Beaten. Flogged.
You would think he was Catholic with the way sexual repression and guilt loomed over his life.
Belly has been placed on a pedestal in Conrad’s mind, a pedestal so high that the idea of her descending it to get on her knees felt like sacrilege. The act of her quite literally lowering herself wasn’t only degrading, to him, it was blasphemous.
But…
I mean it’s all a little Victorian, isn't it? Really pretty fucking ridiculous, and regressive, he reconsiders.
Belly is a person, like him, he continuously tries convincing himself. She has wants and needs, just like he does. Isn’t it paternalistic to deny her an aspect of sex she's willingly choosing to engage in, to strip her of her agency, all because he thinks it’s beneath her in his fucked up, backward world view?
That’s really just as bad as if he were insisting upon her doing it. Worse, even, if you think about it…
This is what Conrad tells himself, anyway, as Belly slides down his lap. He again reminds himself that this is okay, lest he reinforce some sort of sexual horseshoe theory, when she finally reaches the carpet in front of him.
And then he really hates himself for thinking this may be the prettiest she’s ever looked, and that his imagination did not do it justice.
“You-” he starts, his voice cracking mortifyingly, clearing his throat. “We uh…can stop, if you..” he reassures weakly, for about the fourth time in five minutes, watching the way her fingertips toy with the button of his jeans.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks softly, eyes going reverent the way he tries not to notice they do around him. In a way he thinks he doesn’t deserve.
Conrad swallows slowly.
He should say yes. He should tell her that they shouldn't do this with everyone else in the house. He should help her up and kiss her and tell her to pick a movie while he goes to the bathroom and quickly jerks off.
But as Conrad's conscious mind thinks this, his subconscious mind is shaking his head. Belly smiles shyly as she continues, tugging his zipper down, and he can feel his heart slamming against his sternum. He can hear the frantic drum beat of it in his ears, a flush already creeping up his neck. He traces the movements of her hands as they tentatively tug at the waistband of his boxers, her eyes flickering up to his, and he realizes she wants further approval; his approval.
He nods, bringing his hand down to tenderly tuck a few pieces of her hair back behind her ear, and he can feel the heat radiating off of her skin.
"Go ahead.." he says thickly, and he can see then just how much she wants to please him. She obediently works the elastic down and over him, and he immediately springs up, the look on her face making something tighten low in his stomach.
He is still only a guy, after all.
His eyes nervously glance toward his locked bedroom door. The lock had been grandfathered in from the previous owners of the house, and he knew implicitly to never use it when he had a girlfriend over. He had been allowed to close the door, to give himself and whoever he had over some privacy- but it was to remain unlocked, that he knew. Conrad decided, however, that he would much rather take the punishment for the door being locked and allow himself time to pull his pants up than he would for one of their mothers or brothers to walk in and see…this.
When he looks back down at her, her eyes are still taking him in, hands nervously yet to touch him. She hadn’t, actually, touched him at all since they’d been together. He’d taken the lead their first time, made it all about her- her comfort, her pleasure. He can see her hesitation, and again he says,
“We don’t have to, Belly..if you-”
But then his brain stops working, his mouth going a bit numb as her small hands both take to wrapping around him, trembling slightly as she builds up courage. She looks up at him again, and he has to focus on not coming just from this- her hands on him with her saucer-sized pupils trained up at him, in a way that makes him feel powerful. In a way that makes him want to tell her what a good girl she is.
“I..I really want to..” she says, voice a whisper, blinking slowly as if she’s asking if that’s alright. It’s all he can manage to do to bob his head, her eyes falling back to the head of him in front of her nose, her lips parting.
He reaches the hand not holding his shirt up above his navel down again to gently cup her cheek, and her eyes are back on his in an instant.
“Do I just..” she starts to ask, swallowing as she begins to bring her mouth closer, her breath washing over the tip. He nods again, his head spinning at the proximity- it’s better than he’d dreamt it; her pretty face in front of him fully erect. He’s pictured exactly this about a hundred times. He lets his hand linger only a second longer, thumb tenderly brushing her cheekbone, before he slowly runs it up to her temple, gently pulling back more of her hair from her face, watching as she relaxes into his touch. She finally leans in and her mouth makes contact with him, and right away Conrad knows this isn’t going to last long. It’s so little at first he can barely feel it- or rather he would barely feel it, if he weren’t acutely aware of every inch of skin on his body at the moment. If his every nerve ending wasn’t on edge.
Her lips start by pressing small kisses to him- to the length, the head, the tip. He knows she’s buying time, working herself up to taking him into her mouth. He feels fucking drunk watching her, his chest rising and falling with his labored breathing before her tongue's even touched him. He lets out a long heavy exhale after a fourth kiss, this one very deliberately to the vein along the top, and she looks at him again when she pulls back. Her eyes are somehow, impossibly, darker than before. She looks determined- a look he knows well on her. He watches as she confidently opens her mouth and takes him into it just past the head, and he clenches his jaw so violently he thinks he might crack bone.
“Fuck-” he mutters under his breath, his mouth opening with hers as she takes him in that far again, and then again, her soft lips skirting over his skin.
He steadies his hand and lets go of her hair, bringing it back down, stilling her. She keeps her eyes on his with silky strands beautifully framing her cheeks as his thumb gently brushes her bottom lip, tugging it, and then he slips past it right inside her mouth. She doesn’t look startled by it- in fact, she closes around it, feeling him gently run the pad over her tongue. His thighs tighten as she begins to suck on it the way she thinks she should, the way he wants her to, and he slowly withdraws it once it’s sufficiently slick. He runs it over her bottom lip again in a few slow swipes, dipping it back in and repeating the process until it’s shiny and pouted.
He watches the way she shifts on her knees.
He has no clue how turned on she is; how she’s completely soaked through her panties, how her stomach is in knots. She sits back and presses her own heel between her legs as she sucks his thumb, grinding down against it. She sighs softly when she raises back up a little, slowly taking him back into her mouth. (Fuck him for being so tall.) Her lips glide over the head now, and he watches as she slowly works just that much again, back and forth, back and forth, until spit begins to accumulate on the corners of her lips.
Conrad, at this point, is doing nothing but focusing on not coming. Not coming, not pulling too hard on her hair as his hand retakes it in a very loose ponytail behind her head, and not bucking his hips as she begins to take a bit more. She hasn’t reached her throat with it yet, her teeth only grazing him once as she learns her own mouth. Her eyes close, like she’s getting lost in it, and he shudders another heavy breath as she hums softly against him over the sounds of wet suction.
“Belly-” he chokes, and she pulls her mouth from him, the tip resting on her bottom lip, her breathing a bit faster. “Fuck- you have to…”
He looks frazzled in a way Belly's never seen him before. In a way Belly didn’t think Conrad Fisher was capable of. The sight of him, his composure so fractured, his neck so red, his hand shaking as it slowly massages her scalp..
It might be the greatest feeling she’s ever experienced- this power. Having the boy she’s had a crush on forever look like he’d fall to his knees if she swirled her tongue the right way.
There’s a tiny bubble on the tip of Belly’s tongue where it meets his swollen tip, and Conrad can’t stop looking at it. It pops as she taps the head against it, something she learned to do from that one time Taylor showed her XVideos in an incognito tab for “research” when she first started dating her middle school boyfriend. The sight of it makes Conrad let out an exasperated groan under his breath.
“Belly..” he says again just before her lips close around him again, pushing further up the length, her tongue tracing the underside.
She thinks, from the look on his face and the way his voice is breaking off, that she might not have much time left, so she does what she’s wanted to from the start- what she’s wanted to since she planned to do this last night laying in bed on her daisy sheets texting him how she’s “so excited” to see him.
She makes sure she looks up at him, letting her hands fall away and tentatively rest on his still clothed thighs, and then she presses forward as far as she can, her eyes closing as he hits her throat. She tries, really really tries, to keep them open, but she can’t stop them from shutting reflexively when she gags, pulling away with a sharp inhale. They're beautifully watering when she looks back up at him, the thinnest string of spit still connecting his tip to her lips. She repeats the motion, barely giving herself a second to breathe, and this time she holds it for as long as she can bear, and she can hear a muttered string of curses fall from Conrad’s lips above her, his hand tightening in her hair so aggressively it stings the crown of her scalp.
“I’m- fuck, Belly- fuck-” seem to be the only three words he knows, because he repeats them twice over before she finally pulls back, a small wet cough escaping her as she looks up at him again, and he’s definitely going to come- like he’s going to come right fucking now, and he’s looking around for a crumpled up t-shirt or towel or fucking anything he can use when she starts slowly sucking on the first third of him again, and he’s still gripping her hair, tugging on it a bit.
“I’m- gonna come-”
But Belly just nods against him, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t going to be the first time he’s come inside of a girl, let alone a mouth-
But then he is, unable to stop himself against the pressure her lips are providing around the ridge and the way her tongue feels on the leaking tip. He comes with his mouth closed to stifle repetitive grunts, his hand wrapping around the base instinctively as he steadies himself, squeezing and tugging. Her eyes close and she listens to the sounds she elicited from him, what she did to him, as short hot spurts hit the back of her tongue. She startles with an almost imperceptible jump at the first release, Conrad dangerously close to giving them away with the volume of moan it draws from him. And then, as fast as it had begun, it’s over, and she’s swallowing the way she thinks she should, the way she wants to, and Conrad is looking down at her with this incredible dazed expression.
And, y’know, it's come. It’s, like, not a strawberry milkshake or anything. But it’s Conrad’s come, and so she thinks she’d definitely like to swallow it again sometime.
When he can get his voice to come back to him, after he slows his panting and lets go of the fisted hem of his shirt to rake his fingers back through his hair, he’s murmuring “C’mere..” in the roughest tone she’s ever heard. She’s still on her knees in front of him and as she begins to climb back up he gets one of those smirky lopsided smiles on his lips, his large hands sliding down to cup the backs of her thighs and pull her the rest of the way.
Belly giggles breathlessly as he lifts her, falling back onto his bed, settling her in his lap to straddle him. He quickly raises his hips to tug at his jeans not even bothering to zip or button them before he’s got one hand back on her flushed cheek running the tip of his nose along hers.
“Okay?” he murmurs, pressing a small kiss to the corner of her lips as her palms rest flat against his chest pressing him down into his comforter.
Belly nods, and Conrad echos it, his hand running around to the weave his fingers through her hair again, softer this time. He slowly draws her in, capturing her top lip between his, humming softly against it as he shifts his legs, letting her settle with one of his thighs pressed up between hers. Belly parts her lips as he does and Conrad slowly begins to lick into her mouth in successive kisses. She sighs, his other hand running down to her lower back as her body relaxes and their tongues continue languidly tangling between their mouths. After about thirty seconds like that he presses his leg further up, the seam of her jeans applying the perfect pressure- and now she understands, pulling her lips back to look at his half lidded eyes.
Conrad nods again, forehead brushing hers as she rolls her hips against him, his fingertips pressing indentations into the base of her skull and spine as he slowly pulls her lips back down to him, his tongue sweeping over hers as soon as it reclaims her mouth.
Belly has herself braced on his chest, their mouths moving in sync, the taste of him still on her tongue as she begins to lazily grind herself into his mid-thigh. She whimpers almost immediately, the feeling something just shy of euphoric, her body setting it’s own agonizing pace as she hones in on the feeling his hand on her lower back, and then her waist- and then her ass.
She feels it, wide and warm, cup just over the left pocket, thumb tucking itself into an empty belt loop as he slowly helps roll her body against his. She pulls away after only a few seconds like that, mouth stilling parted against his, and she can feel a wet spot beginning to take shape. She can’t even imagine how messy the cleanup is going to be before they have to go down for dinner, a gasp escaping her involuntarily as he presses even further up into her, her pubic bone now flush with him.
“Conrad-” she breathes into his mouth, his lips wetly trailing down beneath the hair that’s fallen over her face, finding her neck. She feels her eyelids flutter as his lips begin working the skin just below her jaw, her hips rolling faster as he nips there, his hand skimming back up to her waist, the other tipping her head further back, another utterance of his name breaking off into the quiet air around them.
“That feel good?” he asks against the tender skin, and he feels her nod, her jaw brushing the bridge of his nose. “You’re so wet..” he says then, feeling the cold between her legs though the denim of his jeans.
“I..” Belly breathes, shaking her head softly before another whimper leaves her parted lips, then his name again.
Conrad wonders if she can wait maybe, like, seven minutes; he thinks he can get hard enough to fuck her right here in his bed, or hidden on the floor on the other side of it.
But she won’t last that long, not the way she’s beginning to shutter out these small sounds against his temple, his teeth grazing the tendon that runs beside her pulse point.
“Fuck,” he breathes out again, and she nods, her clit being hit at the perfect angle by the tail of her zipper.
“Conrad- oh my God-” escapes her, her mind gone, off somewhere chasing pleasure. Conrad still has enough presence of mind to let go of her hair, his hand curling around to cup over her mouth just as she reaches her climax and her hips stutter against him. She lets out a short whine into his palm, his nose pressed into the the crook of her neck, breathing in short huffs feeling her twitch against him trying not to think about how good it would feel to be inside her right now. How tight and wet and empty she is just above him, only four thin layers away.
He’s going to end up having to jerk off in the bathroom anyway, he thinks.
As Belly presses down hard one last time, Conrad can feel the throbbing between her legs, and it's fucking torture. Belly’s body slowly beings to uncoil after a few more seconds, slumping into his, satiated if the look in her eyes when he pulls his hand from her mouth is any indication. She’s got that sleepy smile on her lips, forehead pressing to his again as she breathlessly comes down.
“Good?” he asks thickly, and she nods, her lips skirting along his top one as her eyes close again. She’s swaying a little, both of his hands now bracing her, wrapped around her bare waist beneath her cropped sweater. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he almost slurs, huskily, genuine awe laced though his tone at how hot she looks after he makes her come- the way her skin actually fucking glows.
Belly lets out a bashful sort of groan, her face dipping to tuck into his neck as she allows herself to fully collapse on top of him, Conrad sighing into her hair as he wraps his arms fully around her torso. He can’t help but let his boyish impulses continue to get the better of him, his arms tightening to press her even flusher into him, squeezing with a firmness that makes her nestle in even closer (and almost makes it hard for her to breathe). Her boobs are pressed nearly flat against his chest, and it's a dream. He thinks he might grab one before they go downstairs, he hasn't gotten to do that yet.
She hums a warm “Mmm,” into his skin, giggling when she feels him playfully tug the ends of her hair that are resting at her middle back.
“Stop…” she playfully draws out against his collarbone, but he does it again, feeling her smile against it.
He wants to say it. He could. He should.
I love you, Belly. I love you so fucking much, Belly. You’re all I think about, Belly.
And then, as she further koalas herself around his body, squeezing him with her shaky thighs, he thinks,
Marry me. Right now. Let’s sneak out of my window, down the trellis, and elope. There is no minimum marriage age in Massachusetts- I’ll just forge your dad's signature- how hard would it be to sign John?-
“D’yrm-m-gt-sprkln-c-dr?”
Conrad let’s out a sudden laugh, his focus narrowing back in, smiling from ear to ear.
“What?” he asks, his hand ceasing the small circles it was tracing around the two dimples indenting her warm bare skin just above her waistband.
Belly turns her head so she’s no longer speaking into his neck.
“Did your mom get sparkling cider?” she asks again, raising her head up a little to look down at him, watching recognition wash over him.
“Yes she did,” he says, his fingertips tapping up her spine, “and-”
Belly’s eyes light up instantly, before he even finishes. She knows. She had asked him.
“Pomegranate seeds?!”
Conrad nods with a chuckle, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He wonders if he even has to say it. Isn’t it written all over his face? Doesn’t she know he’d fucking die for her?
Belly’s absolutely beaming now, pressing a soft peck to his cheek, beginning to push herself up off of him (presumably to go to the bathroom), but Conrad still isn’t satisfied. He sits up as she does, perched on the edge of his bed, fly and button still undone with plaid bowing out of the parted waist. As she turns to go, saying something like “I’m so hungry, don’t go down without me, I’ll be right back,”, Conrad snags her by the wrist. Her wobbly legs stop dead in their tracks, her bare feet padding atop the thick pile of carpet as she spins and stumbles back between his legs, giggling again.
He wants to memorize this- all of it. The way her cheeks are a perfect shade of peach in the afterglow, the way her hair is beautifully messy from where he had his fingers tangled in it, the way her lips are still swollen and her eyes are a bit glassy and she smells so fucking good.
He smiles up at her and she automatically leans down, pressing one last shy kiss to his waiting lips, still so not used to any of this (being in Conrad Fisher’s room, kissing Conrad Fisher, Conrad Fisher being her boyfriend), and meanwhile he thinks,
I’d never go anywhere without you for the rest of our lives if you’d let me.