“Well, sit down. We need you. Lula’s got something wrong with her kid and has to leave, and she had a couple of six o’clock piercings scheduled. Can you take those?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be fine.” I looked at my disassembled phone on the floor and started to bend down to pick up the pieces when Jerry jumped in to gather them up for me.
“No, I’ll get them. You just sit down and rest,” he insisted. I was glad because I didn’t know if I could keep from exposing myself if I squatted down. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to sit down either, so I remained standing.
“Shit,” I said as he handed the phone parts to me.
“It’s not too bad,” he said. “Looks like it’s just the battery, and the case kind of fell apart. Your screen isn’t cracked, that’s good,” he said to console me.
I looked at the phone parts in my hands and held them out in front of me. “You’re the one who made me drop it, asshole,” I teased. “Aren’t you going to put it back together for me?”
He looked at the contents in my hands for a moment then grabbed them and muttered, “Fuckin’ bitch.”
I smiled like the smart-ass I am. He held up his middle finger as he walked away and said, “Fuckin’ glad you’re back, bitch.”
I yelled back, “You better be, goddammit!” and watched him leave. Then I remembered my jeans! I nonchalantly buttoned them and went straight to the restroom to try to look decent.
Ruby had tied me up with all of her instructions. I wondered how far she was going to take it if I hadn’t dropped the phone. I hope she didn’t think I hung-up on purpose. Does that kind of thing make her mad? I guess I’ll find out.
I got back to my workstation, sat down in my shop chair, and took a deep breath. I was still sweating and really wished I wasn’t wearing my rusty-red t-shirt. It has a way of changing into another color wherever I’m sweating, and now I was highlighted in not the most attractive places. I sat still in my chair for a while and grabbed a tablet of sketch paper to fan myself. I realized that the more I thought about Ruby or my run-in with Dr. Saylor, the less it was helping me to cool off, so I tried to think of something else. God, I wanted that orgasm! Oh yeah, the Marine—and the policeman guy! What the hell? Why didn’t that cop come back? That was tacky. And, shit, what do they think the big deal is with my tattoo? Ugh, the tattoo I regret the most ever. That tat will haunt me the rest of my life!
I didn’t like that memory either, so I got up to distract myself and poured a cup of cranberry juice from the container in the fridge and took a couple of hard gulps. I prided myself that lately I had kept myself relatively controlled from engaging in my compulsion to fuck and fuck often, and wondered if this was a sign that I was turning around. Maybe I could have a closer and more trusting relationship with Ruby or Saylor. Maybe even learn his first name—or Ruby’s last! Fuck.
I couldn’t wait to get home after work so I could either finish that orgasm or go to sleep and forget it. At least, that was the plan. I had talked myself out of doing it in the restroom at the shop just because I wanted to save it and be loyal, or some shit. But after I got home, I asked myself, Who am I kidding? How can I make it to Ruby’s party Friday night and stay in line with my decision to slow down and still keep a grip on my sanity? It was still two nights away, and Ruby just made me horny as hell!
I had made it to bed, but it seemed like the more I tried to stop myself from sending my fingers to the rescue, the more I burned. I for sure wasn’t going to be able to sleep. No way. My li’l pussy was crying for some serious attention, and it wasn’t going to let me forget it. I wanted to treat it right, and then my boundaries were starting to reposition. Why my fingers? Why not the rabbit dildo and make it a whopper? That sounded much better. Wait—or, how about something much more guaranteed to get the job done? Hmm. I looked at my phone. I had an idea—why not leave it up to fate?
I worded my text message and knew that when I hit Send, I was committed if I got a positive reply. Just leaving it up to divine intervention, I thought. Don’t they call that God’s judgment? I took a deep breath, said hallelujah, and pushed the button. Sent. Now it’s up to the gods. Then I wondered, how long could I wait for a response? What was I going to do if I got a negative reply? C’mon, give me an answer, ye gods!
Episode 7 – Feeding the Dragon
I was bent over the back of a sofa while he pounded me from behind, and I could feel his balls slapping against me, while my tits freely shook and bounced in rhythm. I was starting to cum again, and this time was going to be louder than the last. Jaymes, the SEAL, was holding onto a chunk of my hair with one hand to keep my head up. The sofa was strategically placed in front of a large mirror so I could see some of my hair strands sticking to my forehead wet with sweat, how flushed my cheeks were, and the euphoric expression I had on my face. I could see him in the reflection—his six-foot-four-inch frame over me, his muscular dark skin glimmering in the dim light, his rippled abdomen, and the intensity of his eyes as he stared back at mine in the mirror. His specially trained body that was designed for artfully snuffing out the enemy worked very well for my purposes too. And as he pulled back on the reins of my hair, his other hand was firmly slapping my ass. Hard rappin’ all about bendin’ over ho’s was booming off the speakers, the weed was potent, I was cumming, and life was good. Thank you, fucking gods!
Yeah, so I gave in to the beast and tumbled off the wagon of love and romance for a minute. Next time, I’ll try harder. Right? I’ll tell you more about Jaymes and how he keeps my head together after I try to explain some of my thoughts and feelings that might help in putting our style of fucking in perspective—for me, anyway. I can’t be sure he gave a shit.
It’s not that I didn’t feel slut guilt and a little dirty for not holding out for Ruby, or for whatever else it was that made me feel compelled to abstain from fuckness. I mean, it’s not just that I felt a twinge of disappointment in myself for giving in to temptation; even though I’m not sure as to why I was motivated to try and hold out. Was it because I felt so moved by Ruby, or are the nosy moral assholes getting to me with their ideals of trust? Maybe I’m getting weak and letting those people that don’t approve of my bohemian tendencies get to me. They say, ultimately, I will pay for it in the end by being considered a slut and not having the trust of anyone I fall in love with. It’s something about living a higher standard, which, as far as I’m concerned, is just a different one.
Can’t I be taken as I am? I’m honest. Will I always be seen as a tramp or a skank? I’m not a cheater. Can I ever be a virtuous bride—a good, upstanding catch kind of a woman? I’ll just say, I don’t want to be bored or boring, so let’s have a realistic understanding of each other’s needs and appetites, and go from there.
For me, the dividing line between the righteous relationship and the one of the fucking dissipation kind wasn’t easy to see, understand, or frankly, even something I goddamn cared that much about as long as I was having a good time. It was as if a healthy relationship had to have all the different proportions of feelings, needs, and propriety balanced in some natural way. I could picture and desire a relationship that is made up of solid devotion, love, and mind-blowing sex, but what comes first, pardon the pun? Aside from asking what are the chances you’ll find such a relationship that will last a lifetime, I have to know: When and how is the commitment made? Is it all supposed to work out on its own? How do you make it always jive together, and is the effort worth it? For me, it apparently wasn’t worth it yet, and to try and get it required an act of faith and steadfastness that I wasn’t sure was in me. Being told, Don’t worry, the right and perfect match for you is out there looking for you too, doesn’t slice my cheese. I didn’t see myself as the romantic type.
Am I truly supposed to find my partner by falling in love with them first, and then see if the sex is right? Some don't even have sex until they marry—what the fuck is that? There was no way that I would commit to someone I didn’t have great sex with and hadn’t fucked wi
th wild abandon. How could I spend time romantically with someone before knowing that, and have confidence that it was going to be successful—instead of just another crash and burn disaster? Hell, even Marla and Frank, devoted to their church and Lord as they were, ended up marrying while Marla was pregnant because she wouldn’t have made good the claim of immaculate conception. I admired them for their passion, which their church considered to be misplaced, and I can’t blame them a bit for getting it on before marriage. I think Marla is still bitter over how some of her church family treated her in her shame, and I think she could have done better than marrying Frank, but it is what it is. Sometimes we fucking forge our own shackles. They did conceive Alissa, my bright shining star, so I can’t be too critical.
The time I think that I was closest to being in love and feeling any type of commitment to another was when Diana and I were together. I know I’ve brought her up a few times before, but it’s crazy how much she’s affected my life. She was a neighbor that was almost three years older than me. We were both in high school the first year we met, but I was still a sophomore in high school when she left for college. I had my doubts that she had the same feelings towards me, but the more I think about it, she must have shared something similar since we never stopped seeing and talking to each other when she could. It just wasn’t as often after she left. I thought she was beautiful, smart, and was thrilling and fantastic in showing me how much fun sex was. There was no spoken commitment between us, or even one ever expected, but we talked, laughed, and loved, and I cared for her with all my heart. And we fucked all the time. I didn’t desire anyone else for my sexual needs. I wanted her all the time, but I could wait until I saw her again with the help of her promise, frequently playing with myself, and letting my fuck fantasies of her take flight during my playtime. She was all I wanted for sex, and I believe it must have been love.
When she died, it hurt me so much that I didn't want to get that close to anyone again, and I was a hard-sell on love and commitment ever since. I never seriously thought about paying attention to the rules of the game and making myself faithful and true or even make the appearance that I was. That was one thing I was going to be honest about; not just for others’ sake, but mainly for me. That is until recently when I met Dale and felt moved by his shitty circumstances like mine and how he made me laugh. I inadvertently and carelessly got wrapped up with emotions, then I got fucked up when he did by getting himself killed. It’s what I deserved if I cursed him with that tattoo. It never fails—it gets shitty when you share too much with others. I’ve tried to settle in with a guy or two or three, to share expenses and being an available fuck, but it always gets complicated, and I learned that it’s better to live on my own and avoid needy arrangements. As long as I showed up for work, I had a job; and as long as I paid my rent, I had a place to stay.
Instead of a roll-a-dex, I used a roll-a-sex. Sometimes I wanted to fuck soft, and sometimes hard; with a dick, and sometimes with a cunt; but hot and cold don’t always come from the same faucet. To get one or the other was just a phone call or text message away to the right person for the sex de jour. There was little risk of an emotional upheaval. It usually worked. What could I say? I credited my physical shape and decorated appearance for my attraction and abundance of diverse options, but I might have been doing myself a disservice. Maybe it was because I was open, damn fun, and wasn't an asshole—at least when it came to sex—usually.
Jaymes and I saw each other once or twice a month, and he was one of my favorite sex providers. We had an unspoken agreement to fuck each other ferociously and sometimes even mean. Well, I say fuck each other, but let’s be honest, I'm the one always being fucked while he positions and drills me. At the time I met him a couple of years ago, I wasn’t into romance or love relationships at all. We respected each other’s resistance to making our relationship something more or other than just for fucking, and so that's why we never talked and got right down to business when we were together. Unless he was telling me what to do, we didn't talk, we didn't make any after-party plans, and the best way to enjoy it was to let go and just play along. Go with the flow. Jaymes was a master at enabling me to release my tension and allowing me to lose control—and I’m talking total surrender. It may sound strange to say that fucking with Jaymes helped me heal my grief wounds, as well as for keeping me feeling like a human, just through raw sex. He drew more out of my primal sexual psyche than anyone, and I was usually shaking my head afterward over what just happened during our unfiltered fuck performance. And I had better come to him prepared for anything and for any orifice he might decide to ream unmercifully because he wouldn't wait long for me to get ready, and I knew he always was. But even if it hurt, it didn't hurt for long.
Also, Jaymes somehow knew exactly where my reset button was to clear my mind of shit so I could regain my bearings again. I could probably take a pill for the mind shit, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Anyway, getting my reset button pushed wasn’t usually my primary motivation for calling on him to get our booty party started. It was the other button I wanted pushing—the way mad, brain-blowing fucking itself can put a finger on it. The call that Wednesday before Ruby’s party, though, was definitely as much for the mind reset as for the fucking. I felt like I was spiraling out of control that night.
I first met Jaymes at the shop when he and Lula, another girl that worked there, were going out. She was a short and skinny girl and looked like a kid next to him, who was tall and muscular. She introduced us, and it was absolute true lust at first sight for both Jaymes and me. If she told me his last name, I forgot it. As I’ve already demonstrated, I’m terrible with last names.
Like I was saying, he was tall and built like granite. He had deep brown eyes, and his black hair was cut short. His skin was much darker than mine, and he had a chiseled jaw and a large mouth that I immediately began shamelessly fantasizing over when I first saw it. His hands seemed large too. He looked super-athletic, and I was sure that he could bounce me around the court a few times if he wanted to.
After meeting him, I couldn’t keep him off my mind, especially when I was around Lula, and then about a week later she came to my station looking cute and sheepish. She asked me, “Remember that guy I introduced you to last week—Jaymes?”
“You mean the tall, dark hunk dude?” Who else? I wasn't going to let her know I've been drooling over him ever since she introduced us.
“Yeah, well, the guy has no limits. I mean, when it comes to sex. Like, when we’re in bed, he won’t stop, and I just turn into a rag doll, and he still doesn’t stop.”
I imagined him twirling her around on his finger and then when I became more informed, I realized that he probably spun her on his cock too. She seemed to be getting embarrassed, and I couldn't figure out if she wanted something or was just bragging. "Is that a bad thing?" I asked.
“Ha! Well, no,” she stammered, “not at all—I guess it depends. Look at me—do I look like someone who could keep up with him? I mean, if you’re into getting totally exhausted in the bedroom—or wherever, while he sticks it anywhere he can squeeze it in, he’s great. I’m just… It’s way too much for me. Sometimes I think I’m about to die of too much sex!”
People like Lula baffle me fucking silly. Why would anyone get tired of a relationship like that? “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?” I asked. Then I thought maybe she was going to ask me to join them for a threesome to take some of the load off her mangled body.
“Well, nothing if you don’t want to,” she said. “I just thought you might like getting together with him. I can’t do it anymore, and he sounded more like your type anyway.”
Whatever. My type? She’s such a skank, and now I’m a bigger one than her? Fuck the menage idea!
"I could give him your number if you want, or I can give you his," she continued. "I think he'd be interested—he's even asked about you a few times."
“Oh, really?” Score! “What does he do? He looks like an at
hlete,” I prodded. Inside I’m slapping high-fives. It was a lucky day.
“He’s a Navy SEAL or something like that. Or he was one. He’s not in the Navy now, but he said he still works for them sometimes. I really don’t know exactly—he doesn’t talk about it.” She ended by shrugging her shoulders.
“Okay, sure,” I said off-handedly, trying to hide my excitement. That’s good enough for me, skanky slut that I am! “He can text me.”
We traded numbers, and that was that in the research department. Those are all the questions I’ve ever asked about his resume—from him or others. I’ve always felt close to the edge with him in an exciting way, so why spoil it with information? It’s nothing else but sex for us—we didn’t chat, we didn’t wish each other happy birthday, we didn't buy gifts for each other. To tell you the truth, he would have been the last person I would stop seeing if I ever wanted to quit my liberal love-of-fucking habits and committed to one of those exclusive relationship types instead.
I knew that my frequency and variety of fucking—not to mention my partner qualifications, certified me as a genuine slut, but I had my reasons for it: it made me happy, it was a fantastic rush, and I like things new and different. When one relationship is able to do all that and better, then I might submit to it. But I think slutdom is all relative anyway; in the eye of the beholder kind of shit. Did I feel total satisfaction and fulfillment with sex alone? No, but it really helped to have a heaping diet of it. When people would tell me to slow down, that the romantic is better than the erotic, I was cheating myself out of something more valuable, blah, blah, blah, I would just think of Jaymes. Their arguments lose a lot of weight when a guy like Jaymes comes around—and the fucking chemistry is like fire and kindling.
For example, I’ll tell you about our first get together, so you’ll know what I’m talking about. I hope you will forgive me for the salty embellishments, but I’ll tell the story to you as if we were sitting next to each other sharing a joint.
Mindy Poppago: Blue: Part 2: Requests, Commands, and Full-Bodied Demands Page 5
