Ass play
Friday noon, I did another enema, water only, using a hot water bottle system that I purchased at Wal-Mart. I filled the pink bladder with tepid water. I attached the hoses and a nozzle that inserted into my ass. It sprayed water in several directions. Naked, I leaned over in the bathtub, the bladder of water under my knees and pushed on the bladder. The water started flowing through the tubes and filling up my bowels.
The feeling was intense. I’d already gotten most of the debris out the night before, so now it was more a “final rinse.” The first water was a little cool and I could distinctively feel the water spread into my colon. Awesome! I knelt on the bladder and pushed a little more water in. I started to feel a little full, and I wanted to distract myself from the feeling so I could push more water inside after a minute.
I put my hand down and started diddling on my clit. Good distraction! I clenched the muscles of my anus to hold the water in, and rubbed my cliterous. I held the water, held the water, held the water. I rubbed my clit, rubbed my clit, rubbed my clit. I pushed on the bladder and forced a little more water inside. I rubbed my clit some more. I folded the rubber bladder in half to push the last bit of water inside. I thought I was holding about a quart! I felt so—so stretched. It was nice and cool inside. Water dripped a little from the nozzle, rolling cool water over my hand while I messed with my clit so I could hold it as long as possible.
Then it felt sudden that I needed to expel the water. I stood, stepped out of the bathtub and perched on the toilet. I pushed some of the water out, then clenched my ass shut. The longer I could hold the water, the better a rinse it would be. On the toilet, I played with my clit a little more. I felt all electrified and in tune with my body. I got the hair clippers and spread my thighs so I could trim my pubic hairs. I challenged myself to hold the water that little while longer. I felt the delicious vibration of the clippers as I trimmed my bush to about an eighth an inch. After I finished, I rolled my clit between my forefinger and thumb. I felt the fullness of the water in my ass.
I pushed the water out, as much as I could.
Oh dear! I wasn’t counting on liking the enema so much. I filled the enema bag again, this time with slightly warmer water. I inserted the nozzle in my asshole, and started pushing on the bag with my knee and forearm. The water squirted out, a jet flying off to the left and hitting the side of the tub. I pushed the nozzle inside a little deeper, then the water started filling me to capacity.
I put my right hand between my thighs and I kept masturbating. The intensity against my clit was so effective at taking my mind off the filling feeling in my butt. I got one of my man’s razors and shaved the line of hairs that grew inside my pussy lips. I held the water in, held the water in. I arched my back as much as I could and pushed on the bladder of water to force every drop of water inside. Oh, I was such a good girl to take all this water! I reached back between my legs and tentatively shaved the circle of fine hairs from around my anus.
Oh fuck! I was so, so full! My rectum was all full of water and I could feel the water push up into my lower intestine, farther than a dick could probably reach. I pushed on the bladder of water some more, and I could even feel the water push more inside and my tummy started to distend. Oh fuck. This was about as full as I was going to get. I stood to cross the bathroom, clenching my ass closed. Oh! Oh! The water splashed out behind me, all over the bathtub.
I squatted and released the water. Oh it felt great. It really felt great. There was a little white pasty mucus from my bung hole coming out with the water, but other than that, I was spotlessly clean. After I was sure I had expressed all of the water, I walked naked into my bedroom and got a dildo from the drawer in the nightstand
Ass play
I went back into the bathtub. I soaped up the dildo and then I squatted down onto it, pushing it right into my butt. Oh my god. Oh fuck. It felt great! I had a squeaky clean ass, and the dildo slid in. I started rocking it in and out. Oh there was a little to push out. I got up, the dildo plugging my ass and went to the toilet. I pushed. Nothing much. More clear mucus. I went back to the bathtub, rinsed the hot water bag out and filled it a quarter way with warm water. I pushed the dildo back into my asshole and started riding it. Oh, oh oh yes!!! I think I’m gonna like this!
I got done with my little session in the tub and I laid on the bed. Oh my god. I was wonderfully exhausted. The enema was so thorough, and expelling it was it’s own little reward. I felt deliciously scoured clean. After a brief rest on the bed, I felt energized, and ready to take on the world.
I could hardly wait for my man to get home from work. I was fasting all day, so I sipped at my Diet Coke and chewed ice. In the middle of the afternoon, I peed and made sure I didn’t have anything else inside my colon by pushing the dildo back inside and working it some more. I came, and it was a different sort of cum. I wanted to experiment some more, but I decided to hold out and wait for my man.
He arrived with a bottle of white wine. I drank a glass. It went right through me, since I hadn’t eaten for almost 28 hours. My man was going to get the fuck of his life, but he didn’t know it, he didn’t have any idea. I drank another glass of wine, and I was feeling a buzz.
Of course I had already flashed out the credit card at Victoria’s Secret, so I had quite the show for him that night. I stripped down to a pale pink teddy that laced up the front. I took my time unlacing it, flashing my perfect 36C breasts. He took my ruddy nipples into his mouth and sucked, long and hard. Electricity shot right through me. I was ready to cum right then! I wasn’t surprised. Doing the enema had made me so aroused, and I’d carried that with me all afternoon. The idea of his big cock ramming in and out of me the same way that the girl had taken it in the video, well that was a huge turn-on for me too. Still wearing the teddy, I took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
I turned on the lights. He looked at me funny. “No way you’re going to miss a second of this.” Men are always so much more visual than women, but I’ll admit that I wanted to see that big thick dick of his slipping in and out of my ass. He stripped off his clothes. He already had a boner stretching out, as big as the state of Florida.
“You sure you’re ready.”
I remembered the several bags of water I’d deliriously flushed through my system. “Oh I’m ready. Yes baby, I’m ready.”
The wine was going through me too. He’d brought my glass into the bedroom, so I took another sip. Then he picked me up and put me down on the bed, on my back. He carefully unlaced the rest of the teddy, and unsnapped the crotch of my teddy. “Take that thing off, will you?”
I pressed my breasts together and offered him a good shot of my cleavage, my nipples jutting out, then I pulled the teddy off over my head. I tossed it in the corner. I laid back on the bed, ready for him to do his thing.
He started by trailing fingers softly across my skin. He was picking up the natural electrical currents inside of me and swirled them all together. He teased me by circling his thumb around my nipples, then he sucked on each one in turn. I could fell that my pussy was already soaked. I wanted him so bad.
He took me vaginally at first. He put it in, and pushed my left leg up high, so that when he went inside me missionary style, he had my leg to hold. It went up over his shoulder, my ankle by his ear and it enabled us to both see the penetration of his cock into my love canal. He slid it in slowly, and then with one leg up and the other down, he could come at me from an angle. He “stirred” my juices with his beautiful cock. I could see him roll his hips in a circle as he directed his dick to hit the walls of my cunt, all the way around. Oh it felt wonderful! Then with my legs spread so, he put his hand on my clit, right above where he was grinding it, and he started to trace tiny circles around that little head as he stroked his dick in and out. Oh! Oh! Oh!
Ass play
I don’t have any trouble cumming over and over, but it was rare for a man to take the time to find out how many times I could cum. My man was as patient as they made them. He could stroke me with my ankle up by his ear and stroke, stroke, stroke, sliding it in and out so slo-o-owly that we both were gasping with pleasure. Then he shifted around and pushed the other ankle up, so that his hips were mashing into my pussy and I was on fire. He fucked and fucked like a madman.
“Hey, you, I want some of that in my ass.” I told him.
“You do? Oh shit.” He kept pumping away, now invigorated by visions of asshole plums dancing in his head. “Shit Girl, well let me take some of the edge off first.”
He flipped me over so I was on my hands and knees. He stood by the side of the bed and entered me doggy style. Oh! Oh! This was my favorite position, and he was still inside my cunt. I was so wet, I made slurp, slurp, slurpy sounds as he glided in and out. I knelt with my ass up, leaning against my forearms on the bed. I gripped the bedspread to hold my position. He was jamming at me so hard, he physically moved me forward on the mattress. I didn’t want to slam my head against the headboard.
He was hitting all the perfect spots and as hot as I was, I started to cum. I clenched his dick hard with my vaginal muscles as I clenched the blankets with my hands. I felt my body force out more fluids–I was cumming and dripping all over the place. My body had absorbed a lot of water from those enemas. I was saturated. It felt fabulous. Who needs to drink eight glasses of water a day when you can push three or four into your asshole and hold them in and take the liquid that way? I felt like I had a new lease on life.
My man pulled his twitching dick out of my vagina and he started jacking it. “I’m going to cum!” he announced, his hand sliding back and forth in the pattern he always used. His palm brushed past the head, and I saw it bulge and cum started spurting out. I stuck my tongue out and he aimed at my mouth, and jets of cum flew onto the bed, some of them hitting my mouth. I took my forefinger and scraped the white cream off my cheek and tasted it. God, I loved eating cum!
Then my man positioned my ass up, doggy style again. “I’m going to start teasing you a little, okay Baby?”
I nodded. I was still recovering from that great climax, but it would only take a moment for me to be ready again. He wanted me kneeling doggy style with my ass over the edge of the bed. He stood behind me, his own dick still pulsing out beads of cum. He was softer, but not completely soft. I knew that he would be rigid in no time. My man slicked his hands up with lubricant. We kept a pump bottle on the nightstand. He leaned down and studied my spotless asshole. He put his thumb on it, and slowly started tracing a circle around it. I leaned into his hand, enjoying feeling the trace around that tight hole. Then he inserted a finger. I would have normally recoiled against the sudden invasion into a hole designed as an exit, but after all my preparations, I was ready. It was like he was coming home. I wanted more.
“Come on, Baby! I’m ready. None of this sissy stuff.”
Then two fingers. He inserted them like he was picking up a bowling ball. Two in my asshole, one in my cunt. Oh it felt good! The ridges of his knuckles pressed against the sphincter muscle, and I put my hands on my ass cheeks and held my asshole open to him. “Ahaa!” He said, excited, and he quickly expanded the opening, this time using two fingers from his left hand, and two fingers from his right. I was going to be able to take this, I thought. So far, everything felt great.
He kept inserting lubricated fingers inside my gaping asshole. I was bucking against him, wanting more. I looked down to check on him. His dick was standing at attention again. “Fuck that ass!” I told him. “Fuck me in my ass.”
I didn’t need to tell him again. He dashed a squirt of lube across his dick and another on my asshole. He used his hand to spread the lube across his dick. I knew that the second erection would last and last. His glistening hard dick was just inches from my asshole. He was ready to plunge it in.
And Ooh I was so ready! I’m not going to tell you that it was anything like a good pussy fucking, because it’s not. It’s incredibly different. There’s a whole layer of skin blocking that dick from my cunt, but all the wires are still there. And having everything clean and a little wine in my system….ooooh, I could take it all night! My Baby stuck it in and Yes, it felt uncomfortable for maybe ten seconds, but he just held it there stiff as a pole and let my body adjust to the size. Then when I started rocking against it–the lightening started sizzling and rockets went off. If it started to feel a little intense, I just did what I did in the tub, I diddled my clit, letting the fireworks there distract me momentarily from his sheer size.
“So,” Farrell said, “you’re donating fewer coloring books to his library.”
“If I send any – which I fucking won’t! – they’ll already be colored in! Fuck him! Fuck them all!”
The waiter dropped off their salads and left. Subdued, Quinn spoke.
“Another reason I’m here, Bryce, is something I gotta ask you.”
While Farrell chewed greens, swallowed and digested possibilities, Quinn flagged the mozo for two more beers. Quinn continued when their cold ones were refreshed.
“The company has trouble in Solipaz. You know we have factories there. No trouble with production. Inside the fence Grady runs a tight ship. He makes that top hum. Outside the gate, well, we got World War-fucking-III. We didn’t cause it but we’re getting dumped on anyhow.”
In the Mexican city of Solipaz, as well as other sizable border towns, series of gruesome murders stained the desert. Discounting drug turf war casualties, slaughtered women ratcheted homicide figures. The second group’s murders scythed one gory swath around Solipaz over years.
Exasperated, Quinn said, “And of course the only reason any Americans pay attention to this shit is because of the movie.”
“Movie?” Farrell asked. “What movie?”
“They’re shooting it now,” Quinn said. “In Solipaz. A movie about dead, poor working women. Oh, yeah, I think they were exploited, too. One way or another, not only will it be a weepy but we’ll catch shit because even though we have nothing to do with this, we’re convenient bad guys. Bryce, I know it may be presumptuous but I’ve had a file sent to your inbox. I hoped you might wanna take a look at it.”
“Naturally, Mr. Quinn, I’ll open it tomorrow.”
“Good-good,” Quinn said. “Like I said, Grady is aces inside the facility. Outside, the local grandees see him as one gringo feo. Not only doesn’t he speak Spanish, but he skipped the Dale Carnegie course, too. The animosity is so bad that if he was on fire none of them would pee on him to put it out. Bryce … you’re from that part of the country….”
There were 150 crooked, spottily-paved miles between Solipaz, Mexico, and his Arizona hometown. Yet comparing desert measurements against Eastern mileages, the two Western locales must’ve seemed a Sunday drive apart while the fairly straight lanes connecting New York City and Albany comprised an arduous trek. At least that’s how Farrell surmised how Easterners such as his boss viewed the respective destinations. The hired man held off chuckling.
“Certainly Mr. Quinn. I’d be happy to go down there and see what can be done.”
Relieved, Quinn brayed, “Beautiful!”
Generously, the boss gave Farrell four days to conclude his Buenos Aires affairs. Problems discarded, time compressed, task assigned and accepted, the waiter returned at a fine interlude.
Quinn appraised the marvelously seared piece of beef set before him. He grasped knife and fork, cut a chunk, popped the morsel in his mouth and savored. The gourmand’s verdict:
“Now that’s one great fucking steak!”
Monday morning Farrell walked into a different office. Last time within these walls he was a pariah. Overnight he became the magnet drawing iron filings. Suitemates who’d previously avoided him now buddied up to him. Although he understood why they feared his prior incarnation, their miraculous smiley about-faces incensed him. Only his condition had changed. He remained the same.
Away from office adulation, Farrell downloaded the Solipaz file and skimmed. He didn’t know which was worse, the body count or the savagery. Someone had noted, surely not Quinn, photographs augmenting this file were forbidden to be electronically disseminated. He must wait until reaching Solipaz before staring at chromatic horror.
That suited him fine. Farrell printed out a hard copy for Friday’s flight north. Stuck in a tube and undisturbed at 35,000 feet promised the perfect reading conditions.
Job on hold until next Monday, he leaned back in his chair. There, he contemplated how to inform two “friends” of his imminent departure. In their own ways Adriana and Sofia had become dependent on him. Despite all his female entanglements before Argentina, not one had ever ceded him such control. Now he juggled two. When it rained …
Later during night’s small hours, Farrell consciously prolonged foreplay with Adriana. As if by doing so he might embed her skin texture, scent, in memory.
In bed she saddled atop him face-to-face. His cock rose angrily between them. Farrell’s tongue lingered on and frequently revisited Adriana’s nipples. His palms circuited her arms, back, waist, though slower than usual. More attuned this evening, his fingers crawled purposefully across her ass or cupped firm breasts. Inquisitive fingers renewed discovery upon Adriana’s cheeks, along her neck. Soft black hair blanketed the backs of his hands.
She submitted fully under his kind touch. His embraces carried muscular almost desperate fervor. Adriana confused, tensed in his arms.
Farrell stretched the woman out in bed. He immersed his face in Adriana’s sex. Arms corded around her thighs fixed him in a fleshy vise. His tongue explored, unfolded, teased as if it were their first eager moment of intimacy. Farrell toyed with Adriana until she weakened. Then he mounted her.
Head lolling to the side, eyes shut, mouth agape, breath deeply drawn, Adriana let him fuck her beyond all previous indescribable waking dreams. She rocked harder than Farrell. When she came she came strongly, endlessly.
Afterwards, elated, Adriana hugged him. Not her accustomed reward but a gesture unleashed from within. Some special place she likely denied existed. A place all women intended solely bequeathing upon “that one true man.”
Regret at having exposed such vulnerability nevertheless couldn’t stave his vanity by having coaxed it to her surface. Farrell’s contrite kisses presaged eventual forgiveness.
Their next day unfurled as had dozens before. Except table conversation turned towards business.
Farrell gave her the news. He didn’t know what to expect. Often intimate they weren’t close. Had they been more than cordial fuck-buddies, his departure might’ve occasioned small remorse. Or if their connection had soured, minor joy.
Adriana swallowed his leaving with an equanimity approaching cold-blooded. No tears. No pleading. No questions. Just rapid calculations. She displayed a mercantile nature which would’ve been SOP in any corporate boardroom. But she was a kinder cutthroat.
Adriana couched her severance request in gentle yet straightforward terms. She calmly listed her value to him over their months together. And while acknowledging the benefits she’d already derived from spending nights at his address, Adriana showed how he’d reaped greater profit through her regular attendance in his bed. Weighting her argument as she had, yes, Farrell decided, he owed her more.
She wanted a truck. An open-sided one. For her father and brother. The vehicle could widen the family’s money-making opportunities, thereby improving its whole living standard.
Admittedly when Adriana broached compensation, Farrell thought more along jewelry and cash. Easily absorbed expenses aside, those awards would’ve cheapened her in his eyes. Uncommon as her request was, a diesel five speed with rear dual bogies, it made sense. That truck could lead towards better tomorrows.
Farrell would miss Adriana. She was one of the rare level-headed women he’d ever fucked. How soon until she acquired another norteamericano? He hoped that lucky gringo aware of the good deal he laid.
Conscientious and thrifty as Adriana proved, Farrell readied himself for Sofia to break the bank on all limits of good taste. He owed the party queen and her merry retinue one last night out. If an earlier night surprised them, it little deterred them.
Continue next page ………
Erroneously Farrell believed Tuesday night might offer less frenzied clubbing. He was wrong. While new faces populated the usual places, they represented the same sort of people. A just as drunkenly loud procession wasted the evening away then diminished into an early morning pair.
Farrell empathized with his building doorman. Between Adriana often arriving at 4, or him escorting Sofia in around 5 (or 6) other mornings, the poor man must’ve suffered on-the-job sleep deprivation.
The American would miss the easy variety of two eminently different women. Adriana’s rounded femininity was plush against Sofia’s antic angularity. Stateside such indulgence might’ve suggested gluttony rather than satiety. It would be tough reentering a society that excused the first and condemned the second. Materially lacking as they were, at least the Argentines kept their priorities properly ordered.
Autumn weather heated Sofia. She’d behaved impatiently all evening, caroming among curt, petulant and dismissive. When the night ended Farrell had trouble deciding who’d been aggravated the most, Sofia or her friends.
Back at his apartment Sofia was primed and ready before the elevator ascended. Her kisses devoured him. Arms around his torso became light gauge steel bands. Sofia’s pressing body staggered him.
Behind the door, they only partially disrobed and failed reaching the bedroom. Farrell lifted her skirt before snapping off her tanga while letting slacks and boxers clog atop his shoes. Her back flattened against the wall, both shuddered crazily from his reckless thrusting.
Before Farrell impaled Sofia she fished a rubber out of her clutch bag. Quick nimble fingers capped his cock. Sofia’s slit was drier than either liked, making Farrell’s initial stabs more painful than pleasurable. Soon enough friction gave way to physiology. Moistened, Sofia stopped gritting her teeth and started mouthing deeply drawn incantations.
After her head’s final few upward jolts, Farrell pinned her thin sagging shoulders with his own and slid out of leather and cloth. Ankles now unencumbered, Farrell scooped up Sofia’s fragile bundle then carted it into the bedroom. There as morning grayed the black Buenos Aires horizon, they recuperated sufficiently enough for less compulsive, more thorough sex.
When Farrell woke he grinned at the bright mid-afternoon hour. Another acquired Buenos Aires habit he’d soon forfeit. Sofia draped across his chest. Asleep she purred. Her transition from fury into lamb froze his movements. He preferred leaving the scene undisturbed a bit longer.
Finally Sofia awakened. Gradually orienting herself, her out of sorts expression eased into one reflecting nameless delight. Sofia smiled at him just because she could. Farrell rued the paucity of such arousals.
They showered then drank coffee at an absurdly late daytime hour. Sofia prattled broadly about his possibly financing several skiing trips. As she informed, Argentina’s ski season lasted from June until September. His South American coquette became a living brochure for three Andes resorts, Penitentes, Las Lenas and Cavihue. He let her promote unabated. By her nature and his permissiveness in that regard they’d wasted little time in mundane conversation.
Her direct question regarding “their” winter ended Sofia’s ignorance.
Sofia passed long moments in contemplation. Her dismay alternated with being crestfallen. He knew his farewell would relegate her back to the oversubscribed sex-bartering ranks of Porteña opportunists. She orbited around his star and glowed – as had her coterie. Not only had Farrell yanked them out of drudgery but also stoked their anticipation. Random chance had enriched them. The same caprice would restore their natural states.
Returning to unrelieved tedium would seem, would be, a particularly perverse torture. Especially after generous flashes of the high life.
The ride to Sofia’s family villa passed in strained quiet. During the ride she chain-smoked. The fumes irritated him. She must’ve known they would. Farrell kept his trap shut. He wanted no distraught woman eruptions. If possible, they should break with their dignity intact. Besides, Sofia could be a bitch. He sure as shit wouldn’t miss that.
Neither Farrell nor Sofia moved once the remise curbed at her gate. Autumn’s denuded tree branches exposed more of the fatigued estate. Less obstructed, sight clearer under better light, it seemed only hope supported the pile.
The driver turned to his passengers. He saw two stone-still people sitting apart. They either waited for absolution or glibness. Realizing none of it his business, the driver faced forward again. Sofia broke their verbal stalemate.
“I saw us going farther.”
Farrell could only imagine the 21-year-old’s fantasy. Probably the usual dream ending in white lace and happy jackpots ever after.
“No,” Farrell said. “Real life intrudes again.”
Lips pursed, brown eyes cast down, Sofia nodded reluctantly. She squeezed his hand, leaned into him and left a dry peck on his cheek, then exited the remise. Never having done so previously, Farrell declined accompanying Sofia to her door. In his view the gesture merely would’ve postponed their inevitability. Nor was she type of lover one needlessly sentimentalized.
Sofia hadn’t bothered putting on her heels at his apartment. She walked from his life barefoot; from his address into her own. He watched her narrow back recede through rusty gate bars until the vestibule door closed on them. On Argentina.
The End
Jack and Jacquie
Jack Riel lay alone and almost naked in a bed that wasn’t his. Unlike his, this one was large and comfortable and wrapped in embroidered sheets. Plump pillows trimmed the bottom of the antiqued bronze headboard. One of the sheets stretched over him, offering him the only protection he would have for what was about to come through the door. Beneath the sheet, he wore a pair of fresh-from-the-packaging silk boxers, also not his - not before today anyway. Even under the sheet and the thin, clingy fabric of the boxers he felt exposed. They’d asked him to shave yesterday, everything below his neck - everything - and now he felt cold and raw.
The room wasn’t like his apartment, either. His was cluttered with tools, clothes, and computers, but this was open and airy. Token furniture - a nightstand with an old-fashioned alarm clock, a floor lamp not plugged in, an ornate but empty chest of drawers - and random framed artwork broke up otherwise blank walls. The windows were open, but the ‘outside’ was a pair of blue light panels and a slow fan that caught the curtains in an eerie, silent breeze.
He was alone in the bed - for now - but not in the room. In the far corner by the door, a dark-skinned woman called Bobbie slipped her shoulders into a steadicam rig and flipped up the power. The light meter on the rig ticked impatiently at her until she fiddled with the dials. On the other side of the bed’s headboard, hidden behind the pillows in a cubby cut into the wall to fit her, a brunette called Sandra tested her camera position for the dozenth time. “Testing” meant pushing it up beneath Riel’s pillow like a rude middle finger until he rolled out of the way and it took the place of his head. She had a streak of cruelty in her; he’d caught her grinning the first time she connected with the back of his skull. Bobbie and Sandra both wore the kind of loose black sweats meant to hide them from cameras or reflections, but their hair and makeup were anything but casual. Their glances at him were narrow-eyed and quick, and made him feel like a stranger.
Jonas, at least, was a friend. He stood beside the bed, poking at his tablet to fine-tuning the lights or test the mic-dots painted onto the wall. With a swipe of his stylus he dropped the light level another 20 lumens; Bobbie hissed at him, but now the room was dark enough to have a truely haunted feeling.
Jonas glanced down at the bed. “Ready, Jack?”
Jonas was as unlike Riel as this room was unlike his apartment. Where Riel was short, stocky, and corded with muscle from the last four years of after-dark activities, Jonas was tall and lean. Riel favored off the rack jeans and t-shirts when he wasn’t tricked into silk boxers, but Jonas wore a sweater vest over a tailored white shirt. His khakis had been pressed, his shoes polished. Riel’s features were small and dark, his hair thick and wiry; Jonas’ hair had been professionally styled and highlighted, and his handlebar mustache was neatly trimmed. Jonas had maybe 15 years on him.
The older man poked at the tablet and asked again, “You ready?”
“Ummm… I don’t think so. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Are you backing out on me now? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be scared.” Jonas grinned and scratched his mustache. “Not of her.”
“I’m not scared. I’m just… not ready. Aren’t I supposed to be ‘at alert’?” He returned the grin lamely. “Don’t I get a fluffer or something?”
Jonas lifted the sheet for a glimpse at the silk shorts and snorted.
Letting out an indignant howl, Riel yanked the the sheet back down to cover him. “Fuck, man! Don’t do that! It’s not decent.”
“Decent? The whole world will be seeing an awful lot of indecent in another day when this is dubbed and online.” He laughed. “A fluffer, of all things. Haven’t you seen one of these films before?” He turned toward the almost-closed door and motioned toward the muffled sounds of the conversation beyond. “She’s your fluffer, boy-o. You’re not supposed to be hard until she’s ready for you to be. And when she is ready, you will be. In the meantime, just act.”
The voice outside the grew louder and more agitated, to the point of yelling. “A cape?! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Jonas tucked the tablet under his arm, pulled the sheet flat again, and backed toward the door. “Well, that sounds like a summons for the director-slash-producer, eh? Here’s your direction, kid: you’re asleep, or passing for it. Light blink is the cue for action, But you just stay asleep until she’s got you pinned, no matter what you feel or hear. After that, keep it as real as you want, but don’t talk. Grunt, moan, but don’t talk. And let her win, for God’s sake. That’s what this is about.” He slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind him. His voice interrupted the others outside to take on a soothing, conciliatory tone. “You’re right, Jacquie, you’re right. The cape’s too much. We’ll ax the cape.”
Riel smirked, but as the minutes passed in the dark, silent room, his face and body relaxed. His eyes closed and he cleared his mind.
He felt the light blink through his eyelids, and again there was silence.
Then the door creaked open like it had never been oiled.
Without lifting his head, Riel cracked his eyelids. The room was tinted that dark blue that passes for a cliche of night, but she was so pale she seemed luminescent. Her rose-white face was stark beneath her makeup - beneath her garnet red lips and the heavy black shadows surrounding her eyes, following the shape of her brows. Curling red hair fell around her face and shoulders, hiding her ears. A choker with a silver skull at the snap hugged her neck, and beneath that more bright bare skin - her fleshy chest and shoulders - spilled out of a black corset that only just scooped enough of her breasts to cover her nipples and create cleavage. Shoulder-length gloves of the same black nearly met the corset; they were tight enough to pinch her plump arms at their hems.
Below the curving line of her corset and gloves, purple and black fabrics faded into the shadows. He could tell she wore a very short skirt and tall boots only because her black nylons gleamed over the 18 visible inches of her thighs; he couldn’t make out any other details. Behind her a pair of black and purple bat wings unfolded as she cleared the door; they stretched up to the ceiling and beat the air before folding neatly behind her again.
Bobbie circled her with the camera, but she didn’t seem to notice - her eyes were locked forward, fixed to his face, burning into him. They were unusual somehow, her eyes - enthralling in a nearly literal sense of the word. He snapped his own eyes shut - he told himself to prevent Bobbie’s camera from catching him peeking, but it was a relief to break contact with her eyes. He checked his breathing: still slow and regular, just like a sleeper’s should be.
The air in the room thrummed once, twice, and a weight sunk into the foot of the bed. The weight shifted, then again, and the sheet tugged tightly down on either side of his legs. She crawled up him, a hand and knee pressing into the mattress on either side of him. Her nylons and gloves scratched as they chafed the sheet. If she was breathing, he couldn’t hear it. She sat back once she was at the top of the bed, straddling his hips, and a gloved hand - slick and cold like satin - closed over hi mouth.
His eyes flicked open groggily, then went wide with surprise and fright as he acted the moment. He gasped, even. Her eyes peered down into his from only a foot above, and he realized what was so odd about them: they were a solid ivory white, pierced only by a depthless black dot. She had no hint of an iris - not even the thin ridge of a contact lens. The black shadow around her eyes wrinkled as she smiled, and thick red lips curled back to dimple her cheeks.
Bobbie and her satellite camera slid back into the shadows as Sandra pressed at the back of his head, pushing him aside. The succubus looming above him - that was her role in this little story - didn’t miss a beat. Her glove shifted to cover the bottom half the glass camera bell, and she peered just as intently into the lens as she brought a finger to her lips, demanding that the camera, as Riel’s stand-in, remain perfectly quiet.
The camera bell slipped back beneath the pillow as the succubus lifted his wrists to the headboard to bind them in gauzy strips ‘conveniently’ pre-tied to the bars. He thought the outline had called for her to tie him loosely, or even to just wrap his wrists and give him something to hold on to, but she pulled the bindings tight and cinched his skin in the knot. He winced and bit his lip to keep silent; in response she grinned cruelly, relishing his stifled pain. Her lips curled wider, her teeth parted, and for the first time she bared glistening fangs, which glowed like neon in the bluey darkness. He made a point of gasping, of blinking in stunned disbelief. It was the appropriate reaction, since it was what he had really done his first time four years ago.
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Once he was bound she slid off him, rocking back to sit on the mattress beside him, and with a flick of one glove she flung back the sheet. At the sight of his silk boxers she let out a delighted hiss, and Bobbie’s camera drew close again to focus on the glint at the needle-sharp tips of her teeth. The lightest brush from those fangs would slice skin like butter, but her tongue slickered between her lips without danger. Her fingers reached out slowly, casting a nosferatu shadow over the bulge forming in his boxers. The at the tip of each finger the glove had been finished with long pointed nails, almost claws, which added to the effect. She grabbed at the bulge, fondling it through the shorts, stroking and purring while the satin of her gloves swished over the silk of his boxers. He didn’t need to act now: his head rocked back and he moaned; his arms strained at the bindings and his back arched, pushing his hips toward her. She laughed and lowered herself toward him, lips parting to bare fangs as her mouth closed over the bulge.
Jack’s breath caught. His body had gone rigid against the expectation of those sharp fangs slicing through the silk, slicing into the tender flesh beneath, of searing pain and spilling blood. But she only nibbled. Her fangs were blunted and gentled; his boxers became soaked not with blood but with the saliva from her kneading tongue.
Still he couldn’t relax, though his hips still strained upward. Even through the pleasure, through the rigid physical yearning to feel the wetness of her mouth directly, was the frightening knowledge that she could turn on him in an instant. But she was good - he was hard and ready - anxious for more. When Sandra’s camera pushed up to steal his view of the her face, he groaned in frustration. The succubus locked her weird eyes to the lens and swiped her tongue maddeningly slowly over the silk. Her cool glove slipped beneath the elastic band of the boxers and squeezed his shaft, thrusting it up through the gate in the crotch and - oh! - her wet mouth closed over him. He flinched and shivered. He had known to expect her mouth to be cold - room temperature, really, though she felt like she had been sucking on ice - but it was still a shock each time. The cameras whizzed and whirred, even hovering over his head to capture his rolled eyes and gasps, while she traced long, deliberate stripes along the length of his shaft and flicked her tongue against his head. Her lips closed over him and she slid down, a fang slipping against either side of his cock until his head reached the back of her throat and she swallowed. When she tongued him free a string of pre-cum stretched delicately from her lips to his head; the cameras zoomed into focus as she kissed it away.
He was really ready - not just anxious but desperate - to be taken into her mouth again, but she left him to quiver in the open air. Bobbie had pulled back and Sandra had retreated behind the pillows, and Riel knew enough to realize that meant it was her turn. Her attention had moved up to his stomach, which she kissed and nibbled with even more interest than she had shown his cock; she moaned with delight and squirmed beside him, thighs squeezing and twisting. For several minutes her tongue and pointed finger tips skipped over the waves of his abs; she nipped at the bulges of muscle and traced the ridge of his belly button before continuing up to his chest.
Her eyes - even with the huge wings absently spreading and and stretching above them, were what held his attention. They flicked frequently up to his face while she savored him, alternately passionate and teasing, and as she crested his pecs, claw-tips finger-walking in advance of her kisses, her eyes locked to his for a long moment before drifting lower, down to his neck. It was as if she’d realized for the first time he had one. She moved more purposefully, only pausing a brief moment to nurse absently at his nipple before her lips skittered up to his collarbone. She stopped to hover, almost uncertainly, an inch from his neck. Bobbie’s camera drew in close, capturing the quivering anticipation in her lips as the pulled back from her teeth, catching the glisten on her tongue as it tested her again-sharp fangs. She tilted her her face to fit beneath his jaw-line and lowered her mouth slowly to place only a tender, rose-bud kiss in the softest part of his neck.
Her head rose above the horizon of his chin like a red-lipped moon, and their eyes locked again as she pressed her lips to his, repeating the kiss as his neck. She didn’t blink; she didn’t look away, and he found he could do no differently; she controlled him. Gradually her gentle kiss became more forceful, more lustful - her lips opened to surround and draw in his, her tongue flicked, and she sucked the hair from his lungs. She caught him behind the head and pulled him toward her, lifting him from the mattress until he was straining against the gauzy bindings, his arm pulled back at an angle in reflection of her extended wings. She threw a leg over him and sat on his stomach, then slipped her arms further behind him and squeezed, pressing him down between her breasts. He would have kissed her there, but his shoulders burned from the strain of her arms, and she held him too tight to move. From the sounds of the cameras and pressure of her chin above his head, he thought she was licking her lips or baring her fangs in full light, promising the camera what was to come.
Then she released him enough for her mouth to find his again and her tongue - her cold tongue - thrust greedily between his teeth. She lured his tongue back out with teasing flicks and sucking kisses until their mouths were apart and only the tips of their tongues twisted against each other. Suddenly he was stuck, tongue thrust out - in one swift move she had pinched his tongue between two fingers and caught it. She let him fall back to the bed, then pressed his tongue down against his lower lip, holding it in place with one finger until he realized she meant for him to leave it that way. Her weight shifted from his stomach, sliding forward until she was kneeling above his head.
Her wings fluttered, and the shadow of her skirt passed over his face. For a brief moment he had a glimpse of pale flesh - her nylons ended in lacy elastic bands at the top of her thighs, and she wore nothing else beneath her skirt but a tuft of red hair - but Sandra’s camera pushed rudely into the way. The succubus gracefully straddled them both before lowering her bare flesh against the glass surrounding the camera and rubbing against it, but then the camera retreated and she caught his forehead and guided him into the plump of her crotch.
For the next few minutes he didn’t see much but the shadow of her tight, hiked-up skirt, though she occasionally pulled the fabric out of the way to give the camera a glimpse of his his watering eyes, or released the clamp of her thighs to let him breath. He licked when she rubbed against his lips, pressing his tongue between the cool folds of her labia, and often she would pressed back, rubbing harder until she shifted and started again. Gloved fingers pulled up the edge skirt to find and stroke her clit. Her other hand clutched the headboard or his forehead for leverage. Her previously cold flesh drew the heat from his mouth and face, and as she grew warmer she became more aroused - pressing her weight into him, grinding into his lips and tongue. Coquettish moans and sighs began to become more frequent, and the salty tang of her juices seeped into her vagina. He sucked greedily at them, and she spasmed and gasped and bounced on his jaw.
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She might have come of she stayed on top of him, squeezing his jaw between her thighs until it threatened to crack - it wasn’t completely unheard of - but she stretched back and again slipped satin-covered fingers into his boxers to summon his flagging cock, to tug and squeeze it back to life. Her wings folded neatly out of the way and she stretched - stretched impossibly - to keep his mouth buried in her crotch while her own lips closed over the head of his penis and sucked.
Bobbie changed position, and then the succubus did too, twisting her hips and crossing her legs with the characteristic nylon rustle until she’d turned herself above him and could lay more easily across his stomach. Instead of her skirt, the two pale curves of her ass eclipsed his view of the ceiling, rising and falling and occasionally slapping against his cheeks as she continued to rub back and forth over his mouth. The insteps of her boots pinned his shoulders to the bed, but he couldn’t have moved anyway. She lay fully atop him and attacked his cock with relentless lips and tongue, with a gulping throat that squeezed when she pushed him into the back of her mouth. She’d pushed his boxers away like a nuisance, wadding them around his knees so she could wedge her hands beneath his ass and squeeze. Her nails dug into his flesh like cat claws.
She stopped suddenly, and he froze. Her fangs, which had been sliding harmlessly - pleasantly - on either side of his shaft, tilted and nipped into the soft head of his cock as it was about to slip from her mouth. It only just hurt, like the prick of a pin, but he knew she’d drawn blood. Her tongue lashed at him like a tentacle, her pussy ground into his face with a new fervor, and as Bobbie’s camera pulled in close she sucked hungrily.
Even knowing he was bleeding he nearly came in her mouth, but she stopped him just short of release. Leaning back against the headboard, she squeezed the muscles in her ass and rocked her hips in tight circles, putting her weight onto the bridge of his nose and his chin until his face was slick with her juices. Then she slid forward, plopping onto his chest. For a moment she glanced back over her shoulder, as if checking on him, but she smiled and licked a dark spot from her lips.
The air thrummed again as her wings beat, and she lifted herself from him and turned again. She grabbed his cock in one hand and steadied herself with the other while she positioned herself above him, fitting him into her so she could slide down over him. There was a moment of sharp pain in his head as it bumped against her labia, but then her saliva found his and he slipped into her, into warmth she’d stolen from him.
Gripping his shoulders with her claws she began to ride. She stared at him the whole time, stared with those weird, unblinking, piercing eyes. Her lips parted and she panted as her hips heaved and bucked; she gasped and licked her lips and beat her wings, but she never looked away. When she leaned back she shrugged her breasts free of her corset and pulled a thick, pink nipple to her mouth, flicked a tongue around it and nibbled at her own milky flesh, or she sucked suggestively on her fingers, but she never looked away.
She could tell by his breathing, he guessed, or by practice, when he was about to orgasm. He knew from experience that if she hadn’t orgasmed already, she wouldn’t do it before him, before she had some of him inside her - blood or sperm, as long as it was warm and full of life. When he was nearly there she fell forward onto him; as he groaned, she threw a hand across his head and yanked it to the side, baring his neck to her heavy, hungry breath. Her mouth hesitated; her tongue churned.
The moment stretched out forever - the burning in his loins as she squeezed - the anticipation of her fangs just brushing his skin. Her tongue flicked out to wet a spot just over his jugular, but she wouldn’t bite there. It was contractual. The jugular could be deadly.
He’d felt the bite of fangs like hers a hundred times before, but it always made him flinch. He never knew whether the bite would be a fuck or a screw - if it would feel like a golden kiss or an icepick tearing into him. It was up to her, up to her cruelty and lust and hunger, and all he knew about her was that her white eyes scared him.
She bit then, deep into the muscle above his shoulder, and it felt like the euphoric warmth of morphine shooting into his veins, racing to his heart and through his body. Her vaginal muscles squeezed like a fist as she rolled her jaw, splashing hot blood into her mouth, and he exploded inside her. She came then, too, gasping and shuddering and laughing and gurgling through his blood, but she didn’t let him go. Even while she mewled in ecstasy at the heat washing through her, her hips pumped to milk him again, and her fangs thrust back into the wounds they’d made, slicing them wider to counteract the healing effects of her saliva.
Normally her kind were quite neat with their bites, but she played into the cliche and let blood dribble, then chased it down with her tongue and lips, smearing her face crimson before she pulled away for a gloating laugh. That should have been the pullaway, the fade-to-black - the moneyshot for this kind of porn - but she struck again. Her teeth sunk in just beneath his ear, and heard and felt the sickening crunch of tendons before blood spilt out again.
He pushed against her, twisting his legs to roll her off, but she was strong and had leverage; her wings beat the air, her boots spread his thighs, and she leaned her weight into his shoulders to suckle.
He heard the hum, then, the one deep in her chest that meant she was losing her control. Or had lost it.
“Stop, Jacquie!” Jonas’ voice came from the doorway, firm and commanding, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She pumping at Jack’s neck with her tongue, plunging the wounds with her teeth to keep the blood gushing down her throat. She was eating him.
Riel fought back, twisting again, pulling at the gauzy strips, but she wrapped her arms around his back and clutched him tightly to her, tight enough to squeeze the air from his lungs. For her kind she wasn’t that strong, but her kind could rip the arms from bears; it would have been an easy thing for her to crush his ribcage or snap his spine, even while she extended herself to maintain the shape of her wings. Blood rushed to his head, pounding in his hears and brain, splurting even faster down her throat.
“Sandra! Bobbie! Get her off!”
Behind the bed, Sandra lowered her camera, though none too quickly. With strength enough to match Jacquie’s strength she pried the succubus’ bloody mouth from his neck, leaving him gushing onto to the sheets. Jacquie lurched around the hand but not back to his neck; instead she tugged Sandra to her and caught her mouth in a fierce, slippery kiss. Sandra’s eyes opened wide, then crinkled with delight as she tongued the drop of blood from her own fangs. The next moment they were both on him, jockeying to lock their lips around the open wounds until Sandra conceded and switch to the unspoiled side of his neck.
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Bobbie had reached the bed now too, barely pausing to shrug out or her rig before she pushed Jacquie off his still rigid - painfully so - penis. Her purple tongue dabbed delicately at the cum that still slicked the tip, the cum swirled with blood, before she cackled with glee and swallowed him down, biting hard into the base.
Riel cried out in pain; his back arched, but Jacquie threw her arm around his head and buried his face beneath her loose breast.
He was angry now. While the blood spilled from his veins into greedy mouths, it flushed within him, too, boiling and arcing and activating a latent, earthy strength. The three leeches clinging to him squealed in delight at their first taste of the new vitality coursing through him, and they hardly noticed as his muscles steeled and corded, and the gauzy bindings snapped. The bed creaked and groaned beneath him, and his muscles tightened. He glanced up to see Jonas standing over him, holding Sandra’s forgotten camera. In a strangely surreal moment Jonas folded his hands together and mouthed, Please? while the camera filmed.
Riel sighed heavily and fell back into the mattress. He could stand a few surface bites. He’d had worse before. But then Jacquie found his jugular and he’d had enough.
He threw them off, quite literally, and they flew across the room into the walls. The two camera girls, their black sweats matted with blood, shrunk back in fright from his unexpected strength. But Jacquie’s lust fever was too strong to accommodate fear, and with a shriek she leapt back at him. He caught her by the neck and held her there, boots kicking, wings flapping and scraping the ceiling. Desperate for more she reached for his neck and came short, then raked her claws up his arm and shoved her fingers in her mouth. Stripes of red beads followed the paths of her claws
Growling, he flung her back again and stomped the ground, which cracked around his bare foot. Though his wounds had already begun to heal, he rubbed in the mingled blood and saliva and scowled bullets at Jacquie as she crept closer again. His chest heaved, sucking in gallons of air, and his corded muscles twisted and squeezed. Until the moment passed he was angry enough that the sweat and blood and saliva steamed away from his skin in wisps.
“Please!” Jacquie reached out toward him. “Please - just a little more. I’ll be good, I promise.” The other two had gathered themselves behind Jacquie’s wings, and though they still appeared crumpled, a spark of hope lit their hungry eyes.
Jacquie turned then to Jonas, who held the camera awkwardly. His mouth hung open. She wound her arms through his and clung to it like a child, pulling the camera down while she begged. “Please, let me have him. If you give him to me… I’ll never ask for another one again. I PROMISE. He has a flavor.” Behind her the other two nodded eagerly.
Riel snorted and yanked the sheet from the bed, wrapped it around him like a poncho and strode from the room, to the wails of all three women.
Jonas caught him in the hall beyond. “Jesus Christ, Jack, that was quite a scene. That floor was concrete.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. What the hell were you thinking?”
“No, really. I’m sorry. Really, kid. But after everything you told me I figured either you’d handle it or I’d call down the freon.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and glanced behind him, then drew his hand away hastily at the heat still emanating beneath the sheet poncho. “Really, Jack. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I can’t figure out whether I should cut it out for the feds or release it on YouTube. Awesome.”
Riel scowled at him. “‘Let me have him?’ What is that? What am I, a puppy or a popsicle?”
“Yeah, that’s Jacqueline. I … wanted to talk with you about her. She’s a handful, isn’t she? Just last week she took - well, she killed a messenger from my ‘side business’, you know? She drank him dry. And he was a nobody. He didn’t even have a ‘flavor’.”
“Sounds to me like if someone’s going to be keeping a stable of vampires, they need to keep a better eye on them.” Riel pushed open the door to the dressing room, peering over his shoulder at Jonas before he crossed to the locker and popped it open. He caught his jeans as they fell out, shook out the wrinkles, then dug for his underwear.
Jonas had stayed in the doorway. “I’m glad you agree. That’s a good sport, volunteering like that to take her in.”
Riel’s head whipped back to Jonas, and he froze in the middle of pulling up his shorts. “Wait-”
But Jacquie was already in the hall behind Jonas, crossing her arms over his chest and squeezing him until his head turned magenta. Her mouth was wide in girlish glee, which made an contrast to her infernal eyes and wings.
Jonas managed to peel her off and catch his breath. ‘“Jack and Jacquie’ - that’s so lame it could be a sitcom. The vampire starlet and the vampire hunter.” A bit more composed now, he flashed a winning grin at Riel. “I’ll send her over with a videoblog package and see if we can’t come up with a pilot.”
Riel’s head hung, but he yanked up his shorts and stepped into his jeans. Not again, he thought.
The End
Personal Training Session
He inhaled a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly in a heavy, mournful sigh. He did not want to be here. He slid a hand down his torso and over the soft start of a belly. At 29, there was no denying that his body needed some help in maintaining the slim trim build of his youth. He was by no means fat, or even really overweight, and many guys his age would have been delighted to be as thin as he was, but not him. He felt the slight bulge of his stomach, the faded blue jeans that fit just a bit too snugly now.
He gazed with loathing at the vile building before him. A fitness centre! Of all the things, he had succumbed to this cruel manipulation of the media. His hands closed into fists, his knuckles white as he steeled himself for the descent into the bright sodium hell which lay just before those metallic swinging doors. He did not need this! That was the problem and he knew it, he was no longer as active as he once was, he also admitted that a membership here would be money well wasted unless he broke down and splurged on a personal trainer. His commitment to working out would evaporate before the ink was dry on his membership form without a personal trainer. Closing his eyes, he strode with rigid back towards the metallic, mocking doors.
Inside the fitness centre was laid out exactly as he feared it would be; big central raised platform with two fit, attractive, hyper-energetic people in a lycra-spandex combination to dazzle and blind behind the entrance desk, clear glass windows showing row upon row of workout machines or freeweights or pools, people in various stages of shape and sweat trudging through predetermine routes to work the abs, blast the quads or sculpt the buttocks. Like an automoton Bill headed to the entrance desk.
The peppy welcome he received from both the man and the woman nearly made him turn about on his heel and flee the place, but instead he disconnected his ears and informed them of his desire to join their gym. Within minutes of their chirpy happy greeting of him, his picture and money had been taken, and a laminated membership card pressed into his nerveless hand.
Bill gave his head a shake.
“Pardon?” he asked.
“Doyouwantthegrandetournoworatalaterdate?” the perpetually peppy desk girl asked him.
“Definitely later. Also, I need to sign up for a personal trainer.”
“Ohsurenoproblemdoyouhaveanyspecificareaofyourbody youwanttofocuson?”
He wanted to ask her how she managed to speak that quickly and that long without breathing. Instead he shook his head. “Just a general firming and toning of my body.”
“OkgreatIknowjustthetrainerforyou,Ryan,nextopening is… wow… tonightat10pmisthatok?”
Wow was right, you actually paused for breath mid-sentence. He wanted to comment on this too, instead he just nodded his head. “That’s fine.” He worked at home, he could set his own hours. “Isn’t that a bit late?”
“Thenextavailablespotafterthatisinsixdaysyoucantak ethatoneifyouwant.”
“No, no, tonight will be fine.”
He turned to leave as the cute, lycra-spandex clad, bubbly, bursting, pony-tailed blonde smiled a full, white, dazzling smile at him, he cringed. She was too… everything. He guaranteed that most straight males under that sort of onslaught would be putty, gooey putty, in her hands. Still, he wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating cookies. Bleck! How had that thought sprung into his head? Must be the lighting. He bet her name was Tiffany, or Britney, or Chelsey, definitely something ending in the letter “y.”
The day passed sluggishly like the morning after a big bender. It was with worried fingers he flipped open his wallet and saw to his shock the shiny white laminated fitness centre member’s card, he groaned into his hands realizing he had an appointment with Ryan, the personal trainer today at 10pm. He seriously contemplated cancelling his membership or reporting his credit card stolen so that he could prevent his upcoming humiliation. The image of Ryan popped fully formed into his head, a blonde Greek Adonis with a barrel chest, pecs with independant motion and abs that could be used to fry eggs on. He stood at least 6'2, towering over poor Bill, each muscle cut and defined and oiled up to a mirror shine. His blonde hair closely cropped to his head, was it possible to see his frontal lobe flexing? The shorts were too tight and too short and the muscle shirt could only barely qualified as a shirt at all, it looked more like a sleeveless evening gown gone horribly awry! A mantra began in Bill’s mind “Hate Ryan. Hate Ryan. Hate Ryan.” over and over and over. It was with surly displeasure he packed his tattered gym bag and threw it into the back of his car, he didn’t even bother to look at himself in the mirror, it would serve Ryan right! Bill would show the arrogant lothario what he thought of good looking pretty boys. He angrily started the engine and threw it into drive, his hands clenching the wheel in grim determination as he returned to that damned fitness centre.
Bubbles no longer bounced behind the reception desk. In her place was a near carbon copy, only this time a brunette with brown eyes, slightly shorter with slightly larger breasts. Do they have a farm where they grow fitness centre receptionists or was there a lab where teams of German scientists cloned them? It had to be German scientists, if there were a lab, it just had to be!
“I’m here for a meeting…? workout…? …session? with Ryan at 10pm.”
“Ohrightsureit’swrittenrightherejustgothroughthose doorstotheroommarkedst udioAandRyanjustcalledandisrunningabitlate.”
“Thanks.” Bill figured BubblesBrunette must be a newer version of BubblesBlonde as she appeared to be able to talk longer on a single breath of air. Bill wandered down the hall, looking for Studio A, he had no idea where it might be, but asking BubblesBrunette for directions was completely out of the question. He was early, Ryan would be late, so time wasn’t an issue, besides, Bill liked exploring.
As he wandered down the well lit, but mostly empty, corridors his mind drifted from thought to thought. How could a fitness centre turn a profit being open 24-hours a day, seven days a week? What was the 3am Tuesday fitness crowd like? Maybe if the next Bubbles Version came with a mute option. Ack! Damn libido. Unfortunately, despite the size of the centre, handy, informative signs dotted the walls at far too regular intervals, meaning Bill found Studio A in less than four minutes. With a roll of his eyes he pushed open the doors and inspected the studio, it wasn’t quite what he expected. A bright hardwood floor, a couple of black vinyl benches, but not too many weights, lay stacked in neat piles, giving room to move or dance, or in his case attempt to flee. He guessed it must be a multipurpose room, good for individual workout sessions and small group classes. He found a small change room at the back, and quietly changed into his workout gear, a pair of loose, long, navy blue shorts and a plain, old t-shirt, his sneakers were relatively new though.
He ambled through the multipurpose room, and found nothing more exciting than one sad discarded holey greying sock. After 5 mind-numbing minutes passed, he stuck his head into the hall and looked around for any signs of that Adonis Ryan. He ducked his head back in the room when he heard the high-pitched chirping of one of the Bubbles Brigade. A few tense moments later, sensing the coast was clear, he snuck down the hall, intent on escaping the psychological interrogation centre that others foolished called a gym. Still, his curiousity pestered at him until he found himself perversely intrigued as to what implements of torment might be hidden behind these other doors. Pressing his ear to each heavy door to check for sounds, he peered in first one, then another, most rooms on this wing fell into the multipurpose rooms, with the final room containing a sauna and whirlpool. He refused to guess as to what tortures went on in that last room! He was very nearly free and clear of the center when he realized with a groan that his gym bag, shoes, clothes and wallet were nicely stuffed in a cubby hole in Studio A. He retraced his steps on silent, swift feet, slipped into the Studio and had just grabbed his bag when he froze in place as he heard the unmistakably sound of the door to Studio A swing open.
A chorus of “Hate Ryan” echoed through his skull.
A glance at his watch told him Ryan was over 10 minutes late.
A scathing insult sprung to his lips, ready to be leveled at the over inflated ego of Ryan the Bronzed MuscleHead.
He strode purposefully from out of the change rooms, his lip curled up in a derisive sneer. The scatching insult died a quick and painless death upon his lips, perhaps it got lost en route from his brain to his mouth, but rather than a sharp, cutting verbal slap, all Bill managed was something akin to ‘gah.’
Ryan, was a woman!
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