This is a continuation of the Play Practice series:
There used to be characters in this industry. Genuine eccentrics in publishing. Of course that was all stamped out by "professionalization," private equity, and other wonderful "innovations" in the past couple of decades. In my opinion, the single most important skill for a novelist to have is a keen love of people. I spent my life learning what makes people tick and it has allowed me to imbue my characters with rich interiority and believable, complex psychology. This has, in turn, contributed to my considerable critical (and occasionally commercial) literary achievements. Is it any wonder, then, that I'd seek to surround myself with interesting people? Take Erin, for instance. Could I have signed with a more accomplished or seasoned agent? Most definitely. But she was interesting. And fun. Always involved in some caper. Most recently: stealing some curvy, married girl away from her husband and turning her into her assistant/slave/fiancée. It was that kind of intrigue that kept me coming back. Not the sales or the awards (though she had gotten me both). It was the fact that Erin was a character.
And so I disembarked my train at an agreed-upon stop in the middle of nowhere one Friday afternoon for what I hoped to be a weekend of fun. As promised, a car was waiting: a black Mercedes--the only car in the lot, parked in one of three designated parking spaces. The train departed and I descended the ramp to the waiting car. The driver's side door opened and a tall, voluptuous woman with long chestnut hair and breathtaking alabaster skin appeared before me.
"You must be Alyssa," I said.
Erin had been explicit: there were no limits apart from anything Alyssa objected to, which Erin predicted would be practically nothing. "Put her through her paces" was a quote.
"Erin's so sorry she couldn't be here to pick you up personally. She had to take a call that couldn't be moved, unfortunately."
"No trouble whatsoever. You're a far more beautiful chauffeur."
She smiled and looked at the ground.
Alyssa was like the Platonic ideal of one of Erin's girls. She was wearing a belted trench coat but I could tell from the swells under the beige twill that she had all the criteria: big butt and thighs, substantial chest. And from our brief interaction, a submissive nature. Classic Erin. Me? I am as omnivorous as they come. I love women of every shape and size. Hell, I even occasionally let a man slip it in, once in a blue moon. But sometimes the mood strikes and all you want is a pork chop. Practically nothing else will do. It was clear to me that this was one of those times. I could not wait to sink my teeth into this girl.
"Let me put your bag in the trunk."
Alyssa popped the trunk open with her fob and collected the weekend bag from me. She bent over the trunk to stow my bag and I caught a glimpse of her considerable hind encased in leopard print spandex from beneath her trench. I'd have my face buried it in before the night was through. I was rarely wrong about these things.
"Alyssa, I need to make a quick stop before heading to your home. I need some toiletries. Is there a market somewhere nearby?"
"There's a small shop on the way. We'll pop in and get anything you need."
"That would be wonderful."
She drove us into town, which was more charming than I had expected. Georgian touches, plenty of brick. All the way she made idle chit chat, telling me about local politics, trouble with the new waste management service, an Italian restaurant that had just gone out of business. I just listened and smiled politely, and all the while, in my head, formulating my opening move. A moment presented itself when we got to the market.
"Alyssa, darling, aren't you hot in that thing?" I said, pinching a segment of the twill trench coat around her shoulder.
"Oh, I'm fine."
"Are you sure? It's making me hot just looking at you. Are you sure you don't want to take it off?"
"If it's making you uncomfortable, I will..." Alyssa said.
She unbuckled her seat belt and shrugged the trench coat from her shoulders, tossing it in the back seat. I was able to get my first unobstructed view of her and she was a masterpiece: thick, as young people used to say. The top was black and low cut, showing off her ample bosom, and, coupled with the leopard print leggings, the outfit left nothing to the imagination. I couldn't tell if this was part of Erin's vision for her, or if this girl had legitimately bad fashion sense. Don't get me wrong- she looked delicious, just terrifically unfashionable.
"Much better, don't you think?" I said.
"Yes, it is."
She smiled. So compliant.
I followed her into the shop, watching both leopard-printed-buttocks bounce at each step she took. She turned around, undoubtedly catching me staring at her behind.
"Um, should we do a basket or do you think you'll need a cart?"
"A basket will be fine."
She took a basket and followed me dutifully through the store. It didn't take long to acquire the few things I could plausibly need: floss, vitamins, travel-sized deodorant. Once they'd been procured, I continued to lead her through the aisles, just to browse.
In one narrow aisle we had a near bottleneck with an old lady pushing a cart full of soda cans.
