How the fuck did I get myself into this situation?
As easy as it is to ask myself this, I already know the answer: Vanessa. The answer always is and always will be Vanessa. She's the craziest and best thing to ever happen to me, but today it's undeniably to the crazy side. Best too, maybe.
If I had been told six months ago that, in time, I would find myself dating the hottest girl this side of the Mississippi, I would have laughed my ass off. I was raised...well, I was raised a nerd. My parents were trekkies, my older brother didn't leave the confines of his bedroom for weeks if a new video game had just been released, and my twin sister currently plays the part of Magenta in the local Rocky Horror Picture Show theatre troupe.
I, personally, do none of these, but I keep a total of six bookshelves in my room (half of which are filled with books I steal from the local and high school library, one of the few acts of illegality I've ever found appealing besides the occasional hit from a joint) and buy Costco caseloads of generic energy drinks to keep myself up in the wee hours of the night to write. I get a haircut every six months if I can get away with it.
Also, as you'll realize soon, I am a Disney culture junkie. Perhaps that makes me a disgrace to the name of the skinny, pale writer type, but if my unconventional upbringing taught me anything, it's that nobody actually gives a shit about stereotypes once you really get down to it.
Vanessa? She reads, yes, and I suspect that she writes, though I've never been allowed to see any of her work. But, as I said, she's incredibly hot. I can't even put it any other way; it's kind of just that sort of elephant in the room. The girl is nearly a foot shorter than me, she has this crazy mass of red hair, electric blue eyes, and freckles.
Freckles all over.
But she's also a horseback rider and a dogwalker, and it's given her quite possibly the hottest, tightest little body I've ever had the pleasure of seeing in person.
In her own way, though, she knows more about "unconventional" than I do. In short, the girl is a sexual deviant.
I bring this up because we're piled in a tiny room with maybe fifty other people, and that little harpy has given me a boner. Did I mention that the room is part of the Haunted Mansion queue in Disneyland, and the fifty other people are sunburned tourist families with more irritating little children than should be legal? Because both of these things are true.
And it's seriously concerning me.
I should have known something was up when she insisted on going in a second time. My recitation of the stretching room monologue and running commentary of the ride couldn't have been that appealing, I'm the first to admit it.
But she grabbed my hand, laughed her charming little bell laugh, and told me, "Come on, Wil. You only live once." I was powerless to do anything but follow her through the gates. The line was short, and next thing I know we're in the stretching room. I'm not reciting the monologue this time, though. I'm too preoccupied by the gorgeous redhead who's pulled my head down to hers and is alternating between whispering all of the dirty things she wants to do to me and licking my the shell of my ear with her hot little tongue.
"I think...you've been a naughty boy, Wil. What is it you've got down there? In front of all of these families? There's only one punishment I can think of for such a misdeed." Her hand runs down my chest to the hem of my t-shirt, and she's pulled it up to lightly scrape her manicured fingernails under the waistband of my boxers.
I don't reply; just wordlessly suck in air in attempt to get the blood to rush somewhere, anywhere, other than to my rapidly swelling cock. To no avail.
She continues. "I think that I'll have to start by, once we get into one of those little...what are they, Wil?" she asks, obviously savoring the look she's put onto my face.
"Doom buggies" I grind out.
It must be too dark for any of the tourists to notice either the tent bulging out of my jeans or the ginger hottie dangling off of me, and I make it through the hallway safely. The inverted busts at the end of the hall are judging me, though. I can tell.
Insane as the situation is, I don't have the heart to pry her off of me. We're fast approaching the doom buggies we get loaded onto for the ride, and one of her little hands is still lightly skimming the lower ab area of my stomach and the other is threaded through my fingers.
Oh, god. We're getting into the ride. The cast member dressed in the old Victorian-era costume who pointed us into a car didn't even give us a second look. What's wrong with security in this place? We can't do this here! We'll get-
