Foreword
I wrote this novel with the definition of erotica in mind. To me, what separates erotica from literary pornography is the existence of a plot and character arc. In true erotica, the protagonist's journey or growth is rooted in something sexual in nature. That is certainly the case in this story, which I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
This is a long story, but one that I hope you will find rewarding when you finish it.
A huge thanks to P_Anderer and Ddylvsmycl1t for your input, encouragement, suggestions, and proofreading. This wouldn't have been possible without you two. Words cannot express my gratitude.
As this story is submitted for the Summer Lovin 2024 contest, please vote. It's difficult to get votes on a story of this length, so if you go to the trouble of reading this, PLEASE vote.
PROLOGUE
Everyone has a key moment in his or her life that shapes how the rest of it unfolds. A fork in the road, a life-altering experience, or a tragic event. Whatever it is, everyone has at least one. Some have more than one.
This is the story of one of those turning points in my life. A period that, more than any other, impacted how my life turned out.
Although it's been years since the events took place, I've told them as true as I remember. Telling it truthfully means I'm as much the villain as I am the hero. I'm not unique in this regard. Most people are flawed; capable of both good and evil. I did some stupid shit back then. But I'd like to think I also made a few good decisions, committed a few good deeds.
Like any good story worth telling, it starts at the beginning. Maybe not
the
beginning, but
a
beginning. And it's my story so I'll tell it how I want. You just need to understand, the beginning of this story is also the point at which I was the biggest prick. If you don't know that going in, you might miss out on the part that matters.
It was the summer of 2024. I was an arrogant little shit at the time. A twenty-five-year-old boy in a man's body. I can admit that now. Blessed with good looks. Wealthy thanks to some good luck and a great friend. And too clever by half, as my dad would say. I had everything going for me.
Except for one thing. That one flaw in my life, as I saw it then, was the result of events that occurred when I was a kid.
To fix this problem, I whipped up an idea—born from hubris and alcohol—that I convinced myself was ingenious. Inspired by my namesake, I decided to right the wrongs done to me by getting revenge on the people who had aggrieved me in my youth. Nothing wrong with a little payback, right?
So, I formed a plan. A plan that changed my life. I suspected it would. That was the point. What ultimately happened though, I never saw coming.
Do I regret what happened? In some ways, yes. One regret still pains me to this day. But, overall, no. As I learned, even a shitty decision can lead to something positive. When I consider how things turned out, and why, that fucking plan was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Then again, what do I know? As someone once told me, I'm a fucking idiot.
PART I
Chapter 1
And so it begins.
I sent the text and saw the "Delivered" message pop-up on the screen of my phone, before it quickly changed to "Read." I saw that the recipient, my friend and business partner, Charlie, was already drafting a response. He didn't make me wait long.
Lol. For a smart guy, you're pretty fucking dumb sometimes. Good luck, bro.
I chuckled at the response, clicked the screen into sleep mode, and pocketed my phone. I sat back in a maroon, faux leather chair, and brought my right foot up on my left knee. I flicked a piece of dust from my polished, black Bruno Maglis, checked my Rolex for the time, then steepled my fingers together in my lap.
As I sat there, waiting for my appointment with the branch manager of the bank, I noticed I was shaking my right foot, and my heart was racing. I frowned at my body's nervous response.
To distract myself, I scanned the room, observing that the bank was busy at two minutes 'til three on a Friday afternoon. Customers standing in lines or sitting at chairs—likely depositing their paychecks before the weekend—and bank employees hustling to wrap up the work week, depositing checks, opening accounts, and closing loans. This branch was larger than most, with enclosed offices along the far wall and cubicles along an adjacent wall, which explained the high volume of people.
At three o'clock sharp, the door to a corner office with the name "D. Henderson" on it opened. Out stepped a blonde wearing a light gray business skirt and matching coat, an off-white silk blouse, and conservative, black Louboutins. She stood about five-feet ten-inches with the heels, which I estimated added about five inches to her height. She was thin but fit, with exceptional calves that looked delectable in those heels. She met my eyes, flashed a bright smile, and strode toward me.
In my mind's eye, the smiling blonde approaching me dissolved, replaced by the image of a freckle-faced teenage girl, sneering down on me. I blinked and the image was gone.
I stood as the woman approached, brushing my hands on my black Zegna slacks to straighten them out, as well as ease my nerves. I picked up the matching black sport coat, which I had draped over the back of the chair I was sitting in, then shrugged it back on. I had foregone a tie, choosing instead to leave open the top two buttons of my black and white pinstripe Brioni shirt.
The blonde extended her hand toward me, then enthusiastically said, "Dantes Morgan, it's so good to see you again."
I took her hand and shook it, her steel gray eyes meeting mine. For a thin woman, her handshake was surprisingly firm. "I'd heard you were back in town," she added.
"I'm sorry, do we know each other?" I asked, scrunching my face up in confusion. She was still shaking my hand and giving me a broad smile.
"Dallas Wilson!" she replied, like we were old friends. "We went to school together from elementary school through high school!" Her enthusiasm not the least bit dampened by my failure to recognize someone I went to school with for over a decade.
"Oh yeah," I said slowly, pretending as though I suddenly remembered her. "I saw the name Henderson on your office door and didn't make the connection. You'll have to forgive me; I haven't been back here in eight years." I took half a step closer to her and gave her my best smile. The one I've been told is charming.
Dallas Henderson née Wilson was eye-fucking the shit out of me while still holding my hand. It was a bold move, to hold someone's hand for that long. Some might even say aggressive. For Dallas, it fit the girl I remembered. When she saw something she wanted, she went for it. And based on the way she was looking at me, I was the "something" she wanted.
"It's fine," she replied, finally letting go of my hand. "If I didn't know you were coming in, and I hadn't recognized the name, I probably wouldn't have recognized you either. You look so much different... in a good way! You look fantastic!" she gushed.
She unbuttoned her sport coat and opened it slightly, simultaneously thrusting out her ample chest as she planted her hands on her hips.
Those are new
, I thought. The Dallas Wilson I knew was flat as a board, even during her senior year of high school. As a soccer player and sprinter on the high school track team, she had great legs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off. But tits, not so much.
Not that I was an expert, but I guessed her new "girls" were about a small D-cup, which wasn't cartoonish, but it looked a little top-heavy on her thin frame. I personally preferred an athletic girl with great legs and a firm ass over big tits and curvy hips. To each his own.
"Thanks, Dallas," I replied to her compliment. "You look great as well."
From what I saw when she walked up, Dallas still had exceptional legs and a firm ass. I don't know what she was doing to stay fit, but it was working from the shoulders down.
To my amusement though, I noticed she still had a bit of a butterface. As in, everything looks good but-her-face. It wasn't that bad... if you like a face covered in freckles, and don't mind a
serious
case of RBF, aka Resting Bitch Face.
My perception was probably biased due to my history with her. Seeing her now, her freckles seemed to have faded a bit, and her makeup smoothed out her complexion.
I was undoubtedly being unfair to good-old Dallas. I wouldn't call her beautiful, but cute or attractive were apt descriptions. Her long, fair blonde hair, which she wore down, shone like summer straw on a sunny day. She had a dainty button nose and a brilliant, white smile. Though her gray eyes were nothing special as far as color, they had an intensity that I found appealing.
She led me back to her office, then closed the door behind me. I took a seat at one of the two chairs in front of her desk.
Her desk was tidy. The only items on the mahogany desk were a computer monitor, a keyboard, and a file—my file, I assumed.
She removed her sport coat and hung it on the back of her door, then walked around her desk and took a seat in a high-backed, brown leather swivel chair. Ever the sprinter, her movements were quick and smooth.
"It really is wonderful to see you again, Dantes," she said as she scooted her chair close to her desk. She placed her hands in front of her on the desk, tapping her bare ring finger on her left hand; she apparently wanted me to know she wasn't married. She also tucked her elbows in tight, effectively framing and squeezing her breasts together. Her blouse was struggling to contain them. "What have you been up to for the past eight years?"
I was confident the ambitious woman sitting in front of me knew a big part of what I had been up to for the past eight years. She was the bank's branch manager and responsible for handling its high net worth and corporate clients. She would have known I fit both categories from my file.
On the advice of my best friend, Charles "Charlie" Liu, I invested
very
