"Experience and a few surprises it feels like."
Six fucking weeks is a long ass time to go without... well, fucking ass.
Alright, in the scheme of things, waiting out the full six weeks for my various piercings to heal isn't THAT bad, After all, it was only late spring and, in spite of a few warm days and one very hot outdoor adventure (Thank you again Ashley!), I wasn't missing much of the dating/hookup scene.
Well, yeah I was. It's har... not easy to go through a day without seeing something even slightly pornographic- from burger chains using models to proclaim how 'juicy' their burgers are to opening an email from Jessica to find it's a new photoshoot she just did and I'm getting free access to all the pics. Sort books? I just bought four full totes of titty mags from the woman who...I can't even piss without being reminded of getting ridden like a racehorse before it appeared.
Why didn't I say 'no thanks'? A tattooed Amazon who just swallowed my dick and balls whole before flattening my face under her concrete ass purred in my ear while I was drunk on Jack and afterglow, that's why.
Not that I'm complaining or... know what, that's a fucking lie. Of course I'm bitching about getting a rod through my dick. Up until then I'd been very active sexually. Seriously more active than I'd been in my whole life up until that point. This was the equivalent to racing downhill on your ten-speed and locking up the front breaks. Ass over teakettle and road rash for days if you survive the landing.
That might be overselling the point, but you get my meaning.
So, I took the time off from SI and focused on my work. My vanilla work since I couldn't really do much with the Baskervilles save cobble together a bunch of potential plotlines. I did mention that I usually dream up the sex scenes while jacking off, right?
I plowed through Book Fifteen in vast, very productive chunks. What would have taken me six months or more to assemble took weeks of late nights and weekends I would have rather spent elsewhere. I like pizza and all, but when the stack of boxes could build a decent fort for a toddler? Time to vary the menu.
Now, to be fair, I could have probably gone the shorter route and gone out at the four-week mark and been fully healed and fine. However, by then I was building up a good head of steam and wanted to push my enforced celibacy the full six weeks so I could not only be sure, but also celebrate by finding some anonymous Slut in a club willing to give my new jewelry a full-scale workout.
I know, I know- high standards, right?
About eighteen thousand words, twenty-seven pizzas, twelve VERY cold showers, six weeks and a partridge in a pear tree later, I'm woken up from a nap at my desk by a loud knock on the door. I run through the usual- rent's not an issue, paid through the end of the year, Tabitha would have knocked once then let herself in and kicked the chair out from under me, wrong time of year for the Girl SCOUTS selling their for real cookies (I already bought ten boxes of lemon creams off the little pushers back in March!), no voice messages on the phone, not even a missed call... did someone hit my car?
"Ok, hold on!" Quick check... yup, I was decent. Or as decent as I was going to get. Even managed to put on pants for the first time in a few weeks. (I'd been lounging in basketball shorts ya'pervs.) Was I presentable? Up for debate. Was I going to open the door anyway? I did.
Friendly reminder for other city dwellers, if you don't know who's supposed to be on the other side of the door, use the peephole.
"Hi. Yes. Can I help... Roxette?" I didn't have much trouble putting a name to the face on the other side of my door. Standing in the hallway was a... remember the rich bitch on the plane I told you about? The one with all the work done using Daddy's Money? Roxette is the golddigger equivalent of that. Very well dressed in a nice red trench coat and very clingy black dress with her hair done in this very expensive looking pattern of reds and golds (Last time I saw her, she had red hair.). A little more down-to-earth. Mostly on her knees.
"Hello Max-darling! Aren't you going to invite me in?" She didn't actually wait, but breezed right past me, glancing around at the greatly tamed but still plentiful clutter of my living room. I'd cleaned and even put up bookshelves. Hadn't filled them yet but the shelves were there.
"Hello Roxette, you're looking good. When did you get your boobs done?" I remember her as a pleasant B-cup. Today she was definitely in the D-category.
"Three years ago, Maxie." She cupped and shuffled the cleavage in question. "Got everything lifted, tightened and tuned up just for Bobby." I was waiting for her to start popping chewing gum.
"I thought you'd married John Goddard?" Of the Somewhere-Or-Other-Goddards. And somewhere North of seventy last I knew. Roxette's a few years younger than me. "Who's 'Bobby'?"
"Johnny's son of course. Johnny's a sweetheart and all that, but Bobby's a third his age and has a dick like an iron bar." She looked at me the way a predator sizes up lunch. "It's called 'survival', Maxie."
"Of course, how silly of me." I offered her a chair, but she declined. "What can I do for you today, Roxette? We haven't exactly kept in touch since..."
"Since the Christmas Party when I gave away blowjobs to all the boys in George's office for threatening me with divorce?" She started prowling around me, lifting the occasional book or magazine and smiling at the covers. "Pity we didn't have more time that night."
At the time, I was a new writer for the publishing house just having turned in my second book. Roxette had been George's third wife (Second trophy) and had just caught him feeling up his then-secretary Linda (Soon to be Trophy three.). She then proceeded to hunt down and suck off most of the male attendees (Which is how I remember her having red hair.) before George caught wind of it and discovered her getting pounded by a couple of junior office guys who were looking for new jobs before they got their pants up. Since he couldn't exactly question who else of the guests had face-painted his slut wife, so only those two caught the hammer; though I think that's part of why he was always so bitter, knowing that people that worked under him fucked his wife. Oh, what he still doesn't know about Linda and his current Trophy.
She sidled right up close in front of me, pulling on the waistband of my pants as though trying to look inside.
"As I remember, you don't wear any undies, do you?" She licked her lips and started reaching in.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but what are you really here for Roxette?" I pulled her hands away and stepped back, listening to her evil giggle.
"What makes you think I'm not just here to rock your world?"
"'Bobby Goddard' and however many years it's been since we last saw each other." Odd, but I wasn't very turned on by her roaming hands or sexual boldness. I mean, all in all, she's not bad looking and it wouldn't be the first time I'd fucked someone just for the sake of fucking but it just wasn't there. I think is it was her attitude. She wanted something and was going to fuck me to get it if she had to. Let's see what a little flattery did. "I might not be running in your sort of circles, but I know you're up to something."
"Very well," she sighed dramatically, adjusting her dress to show a bit less cleavage and a bit more leg. 'Accidentally' I'm sure. "A little birdie told me that you had a falling out with dear old ex-hubby and dug up some juicy dirt on Georgie-porgie and his family." She leveled the Predator Stare on me. "I want it."
Oh shit, I'm in the opening scene of a Baskerville story! Femme Fatale looking for leverage or revenge against an old lover. I think I've used this plot twice already!
"You actually used the cliche 'little birdie'?" I folded my arms, trying not to laugh. In about four paragraphs, a thug or two will burst through the door to take the information by force. Or the dress would come off. I was willing to flip a coin either way. Time to flip the script. "Yeah, I've got some dirt on George. Told him I'd release it if he pissed me off too much. That hasn't happened yet. Why would I want to blow my contract and my last book with the House by giving it to you? Doesn't sound like much of a deal for me."
"I could sweeten the deal?" She made to remove her coat suggestively but I held up a hand.
"Roxette, I'm all for Sluts in general, but you are the definition of a Human Time Share and I'm not interested in that sort of deal." I saw her deflate and softened my cynicism a bit, helping pull her coat back on respectably. "Look, I'm guessing that maybe Bobby put you up to this? That's fine, I'm sure he's got his own reasons to hate George's family. Not my business. Sorta puts me off a bit that he thinks pimping you out is the way to do business with me but that's between you, him and Daddy Johnny."
"You bastard," her eyes flashed with a bit of fire that was real and not the sex-kitten act she'd been putting on. Oh, I don't doubt she'd have gone all the way and I would have enjoyed it at the time, but that famous movie scene with the hooker getting fucked by a john and checking her watch kept playing in my head on a loop.
"No doubt." Why not agree? Fighting her got me nothing. Maybe a slap in the face that she could turn into something else. "Look, I respect the effort and, if we didn't have even the little bit of history we do, MAY-be something would have happened... who knows? All I can tell you is that my loyalty to the House ends when my next book is published through them. Or George gets froggy, whichever comes first. If you want what I've got, pay me for my time and effort. Something nice and round with a bunch of zeros at the end. It's not world-ending stuff, but it'll hurt George at the very least."
