Grumpy Puck

21. Calliope

Chapter 21

Calliope

I t doesn’t take me long to arrange my stuff in the guest room of my choice, though I feel depressed at the thought of actually sleeping here instead of next to Michael… assuming that is the arrangement he has in mind.

Spotting what’s left of my bear suit, I give Coach a call, and he reassures me that Michael already told him about the loss, and that a new suit will be waiting in my dressing room.

When I’m done with everything, Michael offers to cook us dinner.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“If you wish.” He leads me to the kitchen, where he has me watch as he expertly chops up mushrooms and then fries them without any hint of needing my help.

“I didn’t realize you needed me for moral support,” I grumble as my stomach rumbles from the earthy, delicious scent.

Michael chuckles. “Do you know how to make vareniki ?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A Ukrainian staple,” he says. “Similar to pelmeni , but with more options when it comes to fillings.”

“Oh, that explains it,” I say with a hint of an eyeroll. “What’s pelmeni then?” Another nickname he plans to bestow upon me?

“They’re a type of Russian dumpling.” He pulls out a packet of flour from a drawer that is so high up I’d need a step stool to reach it. “They originated in Siberia and were likely inspired by Chinese wontons.”

“Oh. That sounds delicious.”

And hey, “dumpling” can be a term of endearment, though I strongly prefer “little bird.”

“Both dishes are delicious. Pelmeni are always filled with meat, but vareniki can have all sorts of fillings—and my favorite is mushrooms.” He starts kneading the dough with his strong hands, which, for some odd reason, makes my boobs extremely jealous.

Watching all this from my shoulder, Wolfgang chirps.

“He wants to know if the various fillings for vareniki include cheese,” I say with a grin.

“Actually, yes,” Michael says. “One of the sweet varieties is filled with farmers’ cheese and sugar. I’m not sure if a rat would like them.”

I glance at Wolfgang, whose eyes are wide.

Meine Liebe, so long as it’s filled with some type of cheese, I’d eat anything, even a bullet.

“This is my favorite part.” Michael grabs a rolling pin, sprinkles flour over the table, and starts rolling the dough, his naked, hairy, muscular forearms driving me insane in the process.

“Here.” He hands me a glass and takes one for himself. “Stamp circles with me.” He shows me how, and I help while my heart hammers in my chest for no obvious reason.

“Now take the mushrooms and stick them in the center of each circle,” he says, demonstrating.

A part of me realizes that his words and actions are not sensual, but the rest of me reacts as though the word “mushroom” were a euphemism for his cock and “center” for my pussy.

“Yes,” he says approvingly when I penetrate the dough with the fungi. “Just like that.”

Shit. I never knew cooking could make you so ravenous… for a dick. But here we are.

“Now we make half-moons,” Michael says, cutting through my horny haze. He folds one of the circles we made, then pushes the edges together with his fingers. And is it just me, or do said edges look suspiciously like pussy lips?

Anyway, I somehow glue together a dozen dumplings without climbing Michael like a tree.

He then boils water, tosses in the dumplings, and waits until they float to the top, which means they are done.

“Now we eat them with sour cream.” He fills two plates and hands one to me, along with a fork.

When I bite a piece of the dumpling, the savory flavor explodes in my mouth, making me moan in pleasure.

“Wow,” I say after I swallow. “That was the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in a long time.”

Michael arches an eyebrow, and I blush as I realize how dirty my words sounded.

“So, you’re not a fan of Florida,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “What else do you dislike?”

He cocks his head. “How much time do we have?”

“The list is that long?”

He scratches his head. “I don’t like it when people are being stupid. I’m not a fan of when someone shows me pictures from their vacation. I hate it when?—”

As promised, the list continues for a while, and it makes me feel more and more anxious about the prospect of Michael meeting my family. I mean, “being stupid” is open to interpretation, but I’m sure someone—probably my older brother—will fit whatever definition Michael has. Someone might also?—

“Oh, and the last one,” Michael says. “I want to murder anyone who clips their nails on the subway.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” I ask sarcastically.

“Well, I guess toenails too,” he says with a straight face.

I roll my eyes. “Did that really happen?”

He nods. “Brooklyn. The R-line. A woman clipped her toenails and then stunk up the subway car with nail polish.”

Wow. “Okay, we may be in agreement on that one. I wouldn’t like it either.” And I guess it’s the silver lining to the fact that we don’t have subways here in Florida.

“It was disgusting.” Now that his plate is clean, Michael puts down his fork. “And I’m sorry I brought it up at the table.”

“Oh, my appetite is unaffected.” For food and for a certain someone, despite how long his “dislikes” list is.

Before he can read the latter on my face, I stuff my mouth with my last dumpling and do my best not to moan as I chew it.

I must be chomping in a weird way or something because Michael watches my mouth very intently, like he’s trying to read my lips for some hidden message.

“What would you like to do after dinner?” he finally asks.

I shrug. “Watch some Netflix?” And then, fingers crossed, chill?

“Good idea.” He takes his phone out and looks something up. “How about the older Suicide Squad ? We liked the newer one, so…”

“Sure. How bad can it be?”

As it turns out, the answer is “very.” And yet I can’t bring myself to care because I’m sitting on the couch next to Michael, and the heat of his body melts something in my nether regions, turning me on so much that even a weirdly silver-toothed Joker isn’t spoiling it.

As the action on the screen picks up, Michael wraps his arm around me—which instantly adds at least two stars to my hypothetical review of the film. A little deeper in, Michael pulls me toward him, making me realize two things: we’re officially snuggling, and relatedly, this movie deserves on Oscar.

I float on a happy cloud until the credits start to roll, at which point I face Michael and catch him examining my lips… again.

I moisten said lips. “Did you like it?”

His reply is to crush his mouth against mine.

Oh, my. The kiss is hungry, passionate, and not at all what I’d expect from someone who offered me the guestroom to sleep in.

A tiny moan of pleasure escapes my lips and is promptly swallowed by his.

In an eyeblink, we’re kissing while standing and tugging on each other’s clothes. In two eyeblinks, a trail of those clothes leads all the way to Michael’s bedroom, where he lays me on the sheets and devours my pussy like a man possessed.

“I want to make you come a hundred more times,” he growls once I’m buzzing from a post-orgasm glow. “Maybe a thousand.”

I manage to open my eyes. “That’s pretty ambitious, even for you.”

He shuts me up with a kiss and proceeds to work on his lofty goal until I lose count of the number of times I come.

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of nearby grunts.

Huh. Why am I hearing sexy noises that do not involve me? Is Michael jerking off after yesterday’s sex marathon?

No.

Impossible.

I sit up and see that he’s not spanking any monkeys. Instead, he’s doing push-ups by the bed, which is an even weirder thing to do first thing in the morning.

And did I mention that he’s naked? With muscles glistening and with beads of sweat rolling down his taut skin.

And that butt.

Don’t get me started on that butt.

Suddenly, what seemed like a crazy idea just a moment ago—masturbating first thing in the morning—sounds like a very reasonable and practical way to start the day.

Without intending to, I exhale a tormented breath.

Michael stops the exercise and leaps to his feet. “Morning,” he says, breathing as evenly as if he’d been on a gentle stroll. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” Unless a sexual awakening counts. “What are you doing?”

He walks over to the doorframe and grabs onto a bar attached there, one I didn’t notice before.

“A workout.” He pulls his massive body up with his naked back to me, and every single muscle on it throbs with tension… or maybe it’s my pussy projecting a bit. “Exercising while fasting enhances fat utilization and builds endurance.”

“Fat?” He’s got zero of that on his shredded body. “Endurance?” Is that how he is able to fuck me so much?

“It also wakes me up much faster,” he says as he pulls himself up for the twentieth time.

“I’ll grant you that one.” His working out has sure woken me up pretty fast.

He lets go of the bar, turns my way, and shocks me with the sight of his cock half-mast—presumably from exercise. “Do you want to give this a try?”

The cock? No. He’s gesturing at the bar.

“You’re kidding, right?” I never realized keeping eye contact is this difficult when a man’s cock is out.

“Don’t worry,” Michael says. “I’ll spot you.”

I shake my head. “I need to brush my teeth first.”

“Ah, sure. I also do that before working out. I find the minty flavor of toothpaste just arousing enough to get me ready for exercise.”

And I find his exercising arousing, which I think is the circle of life.

Grabbing my bra and panties, I sprint to the bathroom, put them on, and then do my business.

When I come out, Michael is on the floor again, doing something for his washboard abs. His legs are in the air, cock and balls still out, and he’s twisting from side to side while holding a dumbbell.

“What is that called?” I ask breathlessly. And hey, a question is better than kneeling and putting that cock in my mouth, or licking those balls, all of which is what I really want to do.

“Russian twists,” he says, again not the least bit out of breath.

I grin. “I think you can just call them twists.”

He leaps to his feet, cock swinging. “Which do you want to start with, a pushup or a pullup?”

Are those the only two options? “I don’t think I can do either.”

“Yes, you can.” He explains to me how to do an assisted pushup—with knees on the floor—and I surprise myself when I’m able to do a few.

“See?” he says. “You’re stronger than you thought.”

I shrug, my breath decidedly uneven. “That still doesn’t mean I can do a pullup.”

“You can, if I assist you.”

I look at the bar skeptically. “How is that going to work?”

When he explains, I suddenly want to do a pullup, and badly.

Apparently, to help someone do pullups, you hold their legs in a very sensual-sounding manner, and when Michael does it to me, I channel the surge of lust into my arms and back muscles, which lets me do the impossible: pull myself up five times.

“See?” he says when I’m panting afterward. “I knew you could do it.”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “I think I deserve a reward.”

His eyes grow hooded, and his cock instantly hardens. “What did you have in mind?”

“I want you to fuck me while fasting,” I say huskily. “I hear it has all sorts of benefits.”

He’s upon me in one leap, and then we’re on the bed, with Michael finally out of breath as he pounds into me, over and over again.

“Wow,” I say when I finally catch my breath in the aftermath. “That last one was so good I thought I’d faint.”

“You might be feeling faint from hunger,” he says with a frown. “Stay here. I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

Breakfast in bed? “Sure.” Especially since I don’t think I can move.

He comes back with a tray that has two cups of tea, two bowls of buckwheat porridge, and enough berries to run a smoothie bar for a year.

“Thanks.” I dip my spoon into the bowl and taste the breakfast. “Huh. This goes well with a workout.” In that it tastes healthy and not like something I’d want to eat on a regular basis.

Michael gets in bed next to me, improving the meal considerably.

I didn’t think we’d both be having breakfast in bed today. It’s not something I’ve ever done with a man before, but I love it, and not just because lounging about is the opposite of pushups. In fact, I feel so amazing a twinge of dread intrudes into my thoughts when I recall that we’re planning to meet my family this Friday—which might just be the end of whatever is happening between us.

Which would be a fucking shame.

“This is nice,” Michael says, adding “psychic” to his plethora of gifts.

“Why did that sound like you wanted to say ‘nice, but...’?” I sip the tea, finding it delicious.

“ But we have to go to work.”

Oh. “Right. You have practice.” And I do too, even if mine involves practicing throwing pies at people’s faces.

With great reluctance, we leave the bed, get dressed, feed my rats, allow Wolfgang to perch on my shoulder, and make the short drive.

As we walk together from the parking lot, Michael grabs my hand—which causes a frenzy with the media people that are waiting for us by the arena entrance. A frenzy that matches the backflips a bunch of horny butterflies are doing in my stomach.

“See you on the ice,” he murmurs and gives me a kiss when we reach the locker room.

“Get a room,” says Dante, who happens to be passing by.

“How about a coffin?” Michael growls back.

Dante blinks. “Why would you get yourselves a coffin?”

Michael glares at him. “It’s your vampire ass that will need a coffin to sleep in if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

Muttering something about it still not making any sense, Dante strides into the locker room while Michael gives me another kiss before following his maybe-friend.

When I get to my dressing room, I see the new suit, so I put it on and glance into the mirror to get into character. “Roar. Mr. Bloom is horny, and hungry. He wants manuka honey all over the big jugs of his Pookie-poo so he can lick it off with his giant, hairy cock.”

Wolfgang narrows his eyes at me in the mirror, like he thinks that wasn’t my best effort.

“This is harder to do now that I don’t refer to myself as Bearman,” I explain. “It just wouldn’t feel right, knowing that Michael wouldn’t like it.”

Meine Liebe, you can do whatever you want and then smooth things over with a shot of fondue cheese.

After the training is over, Michael takes me and Wolfgang out to lunch, where he has to tip the waiters extra to turn a blind eye to the rat at our table. Once we’re back at Michael’s house, we both get on our laptops—with Michael working on something for his foundation and me searching for an opportunity to perform with my rats.

“Do you want to order in, or should I make something?” Michael asks around the time when my eyes get tired from staring at the screen.

“Whatever you prefer,” I tell him. I mean, I loved his cooking, but I don’t want to impose… any more than I already have.

“I’ll make my own version of solyanka ,” he says. “Which is a type of soup that is hearty enough to be a complete meal.”

“Sounds great. Meanwhile, I’ll go spend some quality time with my rats.”

I walk over to their room. The rats are excited to see both me and Wolfgang, at least if I go by how they eagerly zoom all over the place and how happily they hop around.

I give everyone snacks. Lenin asks for seconds and then thirds.

Tovarisch, the corruption of the rat proletariat is now complete. Next thing you know, I’ll be craving McNuggets, investing in the capitalist stock market, and watching The Kardashians.

“Hey,” Michael says, walking into the room. “Dinner is ready.”

I follow him to the kitchen, where I taste his solyanka— which vaguely reminds me of a stew but with pickles and olives, a flavor profile that combines with the other ingredients to create a surprisingly delicious result.

“What movie should we watch today?” Michael asks as we finish eating.

I shrug. “How about you choose?”

I honestly don’t care, so long as we do afterward what we did last night.

“How about Chip 'n Dale: Rescue Rangers ?” he asks.

“Why?” It’s oddly unsexy. Is he trying to avoid what happened last night?

“I thought you’d like it,” he says. “It’s got rats.”

“No, it doesn’t. They’re chipmunks. A different species altogether.” And not nearly as cute.

“Okay, we can watch something else. Maybe something with Russian spies?”

“No, Chip 'n Dale is fine.” A movie with Russian spies will no doubt have a hot female lead à la Scarlett Johansson, and that will make me too jealous to enjoy myself.

We cozy up with each other on the couch, and it makes me so horny you’d think the movie featured Chippendales, the strip club, instead of detective rodents.

When the credits roll, Michael clears his throat. “That was surprisingly good. Right?”

Nodding, I turn to him. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“You think you did.” His black eyes gleam. “But in reality, your enjoyment is only about to begin.” With that, he picks me up, carries me into his bedroom, and fucks me so properly and thoroughly that I might as well admit it.

I’m completely and utterly ruined for other men.

The days that follow are blissfully similar. I wake up to a naked Michael exercising, join him, have a dozen orgasms, go to work, enjoy a home-cooked meal and a movie, and then more orgasms follow. The only negative is that as time passes, I dread his meeting my family more and more. I also illogically dread the resolution of my stalker situation, as that could bring about the end of this blissful coexistence.

“You know, we don’t have to meet my family tonight,” I tell Michael as we drive home from work on Friday. “I’m craving vareniki , and my mom doesn’t know how to make them.”

He frowns. “Didn’t you tell your parents to expect us?”

“Sure, but?—”

“No buts,” he says sternly. “You told them I’d be there, and I won’t offend them by flaking.”

“Oh, they’ll be sure that it’s my fault,” I say.

He pulls up to a flower shop. “I can’t take any chances.”

With a sigh, I ask him why we’re getting flowers.

“For your parents, of course,” he says. “I’m also going to get a box of candy.”

“Oh?”

My guess is the candy is symbolic. To slightly paraphrase Forrest Gump, life around Michael is like a box of chocolates.

You never know how many orgasms you’re going to get.