by Brandy Ayers
Wanted:
No Strings
Brandy Ayers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Wanted: No Strings
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Brandy Ayers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Visit me at www.brandyayers.com
Digital ISBN
Published in the United States of America
Contents
Dedication
Personal Ad
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Also By Brandy Ayers
About Brandy
Dedication
To the real Meg, my sister and friend.
I forgive you for dropping me on my head
And trying to kill me as a baby.
Personal Ad
Wanted: big dick, no strings
I am seeking some no-strings fun with a well-endowed man. I know, I know. Women say this all the time, but they don’t really mean it . . . I do.
Recently divorced from a small-dicked asshole who never took any interest in whether or not I came, I have no desire to jump into another relationship anytime soon.
However, I do have lots of other desires. I’ve only ever slept with one man, in one position, and I’ve never had an orgasm that didn’t involve my own hand.
Now that I’m a free agent, I want to find out what all the fuss is about.
But I have things I need in whoever I decide to play with.
#1 A big dick. Maybe it is shallow, but after spending eight years with a man who I had to ask whether it was in yet, I want to be with a guy who leaves no doubt when he’s inside me.
#2 A sense of humor. If we’re going to do this, you gotta not be an asshole, and I have to like your personality, at least a little bit.
#3 No cheaters. If you are married or seriously involved, get the eff out of here and pay attention to your woman.
That is about it. I’ll want to meet first and sit down for coffee to make sure we get along and you aren’t a complete psycho.
And just so you know and won’t be disappointed, I am what I like to call curvy and others might call chubby. I have huge tits, hips, and ass. If that isn’t your thing, no problem.
Dick pics encouraged.
Chapter One
Trent
I read the ad again.
And again.
My dick jumps each time.
It is like something out of the porn I watched as a teen on skinamax: The desperate, unsatisfied wife eyeing the pool boy with interest. He showed her all the ways her husband couldn’t pleasure her.
Only I am a man, and she doesn’t have a husband anymore.
“This chick has to be crazy.” Brant roars out a laugh that, no lie, shakes the walls. “Does she even know what she’s asking for when she says dick pics are encouraged? Idiot is going to get inundated with them.”
The guys and I were all sitting around on a lunch break when someone brought up a craigslist ad we absolutely had to read. The five idiots I call employees are all sitting around in hysterics at the ad.
But I’m intrigued.
Most the personals ads on craigslist have innocuous titles: looking for the one, looking for a hookup, looking for a friend, looking for a generous friend. But not this one. She laid it all out there right from the get-go. She’s looking for a big dick.
I certainly fulfill that requirement. Hell, if she had really been dealing with that little for the past eight years, she might be scared of what I’m packing. Luckily, getting women ready to take all of my monster cock is one of my favorite pastimes.
There is something about the ad and the woman who wrote it that is calling to me. Her sense of humor is obvious. But maybe it is really just my own ego rearing its ugly head. I like the idea of being the one to show this long-suffering, dissatisfied woman how a man should really show his partner pleasure.
Glancing over to make sure the guys are still goofing off, I click Reply on my phone.
Brant is right, though. I’m sure the poor lady had no idea what she was getting herself into when she typed the words “dick pics encouraged.” If she’d been out of the game for almost a decade, she might not know how many assholes out there love nothing more than sending women shots of their junk.
So, I’m taking a different tack.
Subject: No dick pic . . . yet
Hey there, saw your ad on craigslist, and I’m intrigued. I’m sure you’re getting flooded with dick pics of all shapes and sizes, most probably not pretty. So, I thought I’d give your eyes a break and send you a picture of a kitten instead. There, don’t you feel better? Now that I have cleansed your palate, I’d very much like to grab coffee with you sometime so we can get to know each other, then see where things go from there. I’ve included a picture of myself, with pants on. If you’re still interested, email back.
PS The more curves the better in my book.
I attach the photo one of my sisters took of me chopping wood at our parents’ cabin, and send it to my mystery lady.
“Okay, assholes, this house isn’t going to restore itself. Back to work.” I ball up the rest of my trash and throw it in the nearest barrel. This is going to be one long, hard day full of manual labor. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It will keep my mind off the mystery woman and her ad. And whether she’ll take me up on my offer for coffee. Damn, I hope she does.
The guys and I spread out through the second floor of the house, or what is left of it. About two weeks ago, a space heater tipped over in one of the rooms and set the whole place on fire. From what I understand, the family that lived here had fallen on hard times, and they were all sleeping in one room heated by the one space heater. Thank God, the mom smelled the smoke and got them all out in time. She had some minor burns but managed to save her two kids, husband, and even the family cat.
Of course, in an effort to save more money, they had let their homeowner’s insurance lapse, which is where I came in. If anyone saw me right now, they would think I was just some blue-collar schmuck doing backbreaking work for pennies on the dollar.
They’d be fucking wrong.
And that is why I hate snobs and anyone who makes a snap judgement based off appearances. The truth is, I have a net worth just south of Bill Gates. I’ve designed some of the most reliable and sophisticated software that helps law enforcement, 911 call centers, and fire stations do their jobs more precisely. I sold that to damn near every city, county, state, and government office in the country. Gave it away to just as many. That, in addition to the twenty-plus other apps and tech innovations I’ve sold over the years, and I can do pretty much anything I want to these days. Including start up a nonprofit that rehabilitates homes damaged due to fires, floods, and other circumstances beyond the owner’s control, houses that would otherwise sit and become an eyesore in the community. Despite my nerd origins, I’ve always loved getting dirty and sweaty.
Hopefully, I’ll
be getting dirty and sweaty with a repressed woman very soon.
Despite my best intentions, the ad and my response are never far from my mind. I’ve never been this hung up about a woman in all my life, and I know nothing about her other than her ex was an idiot. Any man who makes his woman’s pleasure come a distant second to his own has to be an idiot. As far as I’m concerned, I should come once for every three orgasms I give a woman. By the end of a night in my bed, women are exhausted, but satisfied.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since anyone graced my bed other than my dog Honey Badger.
“Yo, boss, you gonna keep busting up that wall until it’s dust, or is that good enough?” Fuck. Brant could be a loudmouthed idiot, but he had a point.
The studs I had been knocking down were indeed pulverized to mere splinters, slightly overzealous on my part. “Yeah, yeah. How about you focus on your work and stop critiquing my technique, asshole.”
Brant put down his sledgehammer and ambled over my way, grabbing a water bottle out of the cooler on the way. “You were awfully quiet during lunch. What’s the deal?”
Loudmouthed asshole or not, he is also my best friend. My best friend who apparently doesn’t miss a goddamned thing.
“No deal. Just didn’t feel like acting like a couple of girls giggling over dirty words in a romance novel.” Carefully avoiding his eyes, I get back to work on the next section of wall. We had already demoed the attic and roof. The second floor was this week and would be completely leveled. Thankfully, the first floor was in pretty good shape. We would just need to replace the Sheetrock, flooring, appliances, and furniture. But at least it wasn’t a complete loss. It gave the homeowners a little bit of solace when they knew we had been able to save at least a little bit of their original home, even if it was only the studs.
“Man, you think I’m some sort of dumbass, huh, Trent?” Trailing behind me, the guy just will not let up. “Seriously, dude. Something about that ad we were reading pique your interest? I know how you love to be the superman of orgasms. You think about answering the lady?”
“Pretty sure he already did,” Hardy shouts from the other side of the house.
This, right here, is the problem with working with your five best friends. Nothing freaking slips by them.
“Fuck it.” I sling my hammer over my shoulder and face the men who have been by my side since we met in college and designed the first dating website targeted specifically at college students. “Yes, I answered her ad. Just because I’m not the marrying kind doesn’t mean I can’t give some poor former housewife a ride on the tripod.”
“I knew it!” Razor comes out of nowhere and circles the group with an outstretched hand, the rest of the guys all whipping out their wallets and slapping twenty-dollar bills into his palm. “Pay up, motherfuckers.”
“What the hell?” These guys are getting on my last nerve today.
“As soon as I read that ad I knew you’d be all over it like glitter on a stripper,” Razor, so named for his preferred mode of transportation back when we were poor college students, says. “I said you’d answer the ad before lunch was over. Brant said you’d wait until we got back to work and you could be alone. Hardy called ‘waiting until you got home.’ Smith had ‘not answering at all.’ Smith always was a shit gambler.”
“Fuck you, Razor.” Smith’s voice echoes out from the now cavernous bathroom.
Despite these guys being a pain in my ass, I have to laugh. They know me better than anyone ever has. “Alright, numbskulls. Back to work. Drinks are apparently on Razor tonight.”
The guys turn back to their tasks, as do I. But despite focusing on the work at hand, I can’t deny that a little part of my brain stays focused on whether I would have an email waiting for me at the end of the day.
Chapter Two
Francie
“Holy shit, Fran. Check this one out!” Meg yells from the other room, her voice filled with barely contained laughter.
I stopped looking at the pictures about two hours ago. Two hours after I woke up from a night of celebrating my new single status. Two hours after I discovered in my drunken state I had posted a very ill-advised personal ad on craigslist.
An ad asking for dick pics.
I will never live this one down.
“No thanks. You seen one dick, you’ve seen them all, I have discovered.” Damn if that wasn’t the truth. I honestly don’t know why I thought this was a good idea last night. The two bottles of wine I downed probably had a lot to do with it.
“No, seriously, this one is pierced.” Meg sounded hypnotized. Okay, maybe I would check this one out. “In fact, can I answer this guy? I think that might be fun.”
I pad over to her spot on the couch where my laptop sits on her knees and lean over to check out the latest in a long line of penis-mail. It is a cell picture close-up of a guy’s junk, and indeed there is a barbell sticking out not only through the head of the guy’s dick, but another in the middle and one at the base.
“Wow, that is kind of scary. But intriguing. I think my first time out should not be with a guy who has more jewelry in his crotch than I wear on my entire body.” Despite the ad probably being a bad idea, I’ve decided I’m going through with it. I want to have random sex with a well-hung stranger. Call me weird. Call me a slut. I don’t give a shit. I deserve this after spending eight years with a borderline emotionally abusive asshole of a husband who wouldn’t know his way to an erogenous zone if he had GPS turn-by-turn directions.
Standing back up, I head to the kitchen to clean up the mess we made last night. Apparently, we thought s’mores would pair well with red wine, but thought messing with fire while drinking would be a bad idea. So, we used the microwave instead. Now the entire inside of the damn thing is coated in the results of leaving a marshmallow in for a full two minutes.
“Wait, FranFran. Come back. I found a winner.” Meg is practically bouncing in her seat in excitement. I don’t trust that reaction one bit. It is the same exact reaction she gave to the guy who sent me a picture of his dick dressed up like Abraham Lincoln. Top hat included.
“Yeah right, Meg. I’m not falling for that again.” The scent of lemon and bleach hits me as soon as I cross back into my tiny kitchen in my brand-new apartment. I don’t care whether it is the size of my former house’s laundry room, I freaking love this apartment. Because it is mine. The only name on the lease is Francie Lee. Not Francie Hudson. Francie Hudson was a doormat stuck in a big house with a petty little man who had somehow tricked her into marrying him at eighteen, before she had ever seen the world.
Practically skipping into the kitchen, Meg held out the laptop for me to see. “I’m serious, Fran. This is the guy. He sent a picture of a kitten and a picture of himself shirtless chopping wood. But real wood. Not dick wood.”
Holy. Shit.
This guy is beyond gorgeous. I can’t tell how tall he is from the photo, but I’m guessing around six foot, judging by the way his long arms dwarf the ax in his hands by comparison. His tan skin is glistening with sweat, dark hair is covered on top by a Steelers cap, and jeans are riding low on his hips. The photo was taken at the perfect moment so it got the ax as he swung it high over his head, before bringing it down on the log in front of him. I had no idea arms had that many muscles in them.
“No, no way. That guy is way too hot for me. Let’s aim a little lower, sis.” Don’t misunderstand, I think I’m attractive. It took a while for me to get to this place where I accept my body and appreciate it for its curves. Years of my ex telling me I needed to lose thirty pounds were hard to overcome. But the past year and lots of hard work brought me a long way.
Still, this guy is out of JLaw’s league. He is next-level hot. We’re talking put-him-on-a-billboard-in-Times-Square hot.
I see myself going more for a Chris Pratt pre-Zero Dark Thirty. Parks and Rec Chris Pratt, that’s more my comfort zone.
“Fran, so help me, if you do not email this guy back, I will call you at three i
n the morning as I am rolling home from shift every night until you do.” Meg props one hand on her hip, the other still holding my laptop, and gives me her best sass face. “Besides, he said right here, ‘The more curves the better in my book.’ See, he likes a little junk in the trunk. Go for it!”
I whine a little, not wanting to go quite that far out on a limb. Posting the ad and then not deleting it once I sobered up is enough of a character break. But pursuing a blazing hot guy like this? No way.
Still, if there is one thing Meg takes seriously, it is her threats. She once told me if I didn’t apply to college, she would stop coloring my hair for me. That was nine years ago. I let my ex talk me into working while he did college, and my highlights haven’t been the same since.
“Okay, I’ll answer his email, but I’m attaching a picture too so he can bow out if he wants. I really don’t want to go through the whole he-sees-me-at-the-coffee-shop-and-decides-to-bail nightmare scenario.” Rereading his email makes me smirk a little. He was right on about needing a break from dick pics. My inbox is teeming with dicks of all sizes. “What should I say? I suck at this.”
“You’re just rusty. Once you get your sea legs back, this whole thing will be easy like Sunday morning.” Meg pulls the laptop out from under my frozen fingers. “Here we go. ‘Thanks for the reply and for not sending a dick pic. A little too much wine may have gone into that line.’”
“Good. Now say, ‘The kitten was a perfect break for my bleeding eyes.’” Okay, this is actually kind of fun.
“Yes! ‘Maybe if things work out, you can get an up close and personal look at my pussycat.’” Meg giggles like crazy, nearly dropping my very expensive and very necessary-for-work laptop on the floor.
“You cannot say that. That is so cheesy and not me.” I slide the computer back over to me and delete that last line. “‘I also very much enjoyed the picture of you chopping wood. I figure I should return the favor by enclosing a picture of myself. This is from a photo shoot my sister made me do after I filed for divorce.’”
