Calling Card

by Ashley Suzanne

  Throwing all caution to the wind, she starts bouncing on my dick like a fucking pogo stick, her tits moving accordingly. Unable to withstand their calling, my hands roughly grab them, manipulating her nipples until her head falls back and her cries echo throughout the room.

  Every contraction her pussy makes around my cock drives me closer to the edge. It feels as if she’s been coming for the last five minutes, or maybe one orgasm just blends into the next. Knowing I’m close to exploding, I move my hands to her ass, grip it tightly and meet her thrust for thrust, going so deep inside of her I’m positive she’s going to feel me for days to come. With a deep throated groan, I allow my body to take over, growling as I spill into the latex and the aftershocks of her latest orgasm rolls through her body.

  “Wow,” she sighs, falling to the side and onto the mattress.

  “Yeah, that was pretty amazing.”

  Carefully removing the condom, I rest my head back on the plush pillows, not wanting to fall asleep, but get a little rest. It doesn’t take long for Veronique to pull the blanket back and over her body and fall into a deep slumber. Great sex will do that to you. It’s better than any sleep aide out there.

  I wait for about a half hour, just to make sure she’s out for the night, before I gather my belongings and head toward the bathroom. Pulling a calling card from my wallet, I use her eyeliner to jot down a number eight on the back and leave it on the counter. Dressing quickly, I turn off the light before I crack the door. Quietly walking across the room, I slip out the door and down to the fifth floor.

  After a quick shower, I place a call to the front desk, requesting a wakeup call at six am and then climb into bed myself.

  Indiana, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Paris, you didn’t disappoint this time. Thank you and goodnight.

  Interviews—I loathe them, but they’re a necessary evil—always the same questions and the same responses. I could probably give the answers in my sleep, it’s so redundant.

  “Mr. MacFadden, you have quite the reputation of being a hard person to work with. Many models have complained about your less than graceful ways of getting the job done. Tell me, Dexter, what’s made you the way you are?” the leggy blonde reporter from some high-profile magazine asks.

  At least this question is a little more fun to answer and I actually get to tell my story, not the generic ‘I became a photographer because I liked beautiful things’ spiel.

  “I wasn’t always this way. I mean, I’ve always been kind of an ass, but I wasn’t a rich one. Growing up in foster care—bouncing from home to home—does something to a kid; it changes them. It instills this knowledge that not everyone is meant to be loved or love anyone else for that matter.

  “Even before I was shoved into the system, I knew what this world was about. My biological parents were the prime examples. During my mother’s final year of college, she took part in a study abroad program in Ireland. Everything was going according to plan until she met the notorious Murphy MacFadden. The pair fell hopelessly in love, or so they thought, anyway.

  “Fast forward a year and you’d find Emily and Murphy in marital bliss and putting to sleep their two month old little boy on the eve of his baptism. They had the world in front of them with nothing to hold them back.

  “Life seemed perfect on the outside—an American girl from rural Indiana falls in love, marries and starts a family with her Irish prince. They had it made, right?

  “Wrong.

  “I’ll spare you all the boring details and jump to where the fairytale turned into a nightmare of epic proportions.

  “During the spring of ’96, in the quiet Irish town I’d called home for ten years, a small two bedroom home that overlooked lush, green rolling hills became the worst crime scene the town had ever seen. I’m unsure of the details to this day, but one of my father’s brothers told me that my dad caught my mom having an affair with the owner of the pub down the road.

  “The police report catalogued it as a murder-suicide. My father confronted my mother and killed her just before turning the gun on himself. I’m not sure he ever thought about what would happen to me, or if he did, but only cared about himself.

  “Either way, I lost. Everything.

  “My maternal grandparents flew to Ireland immediately after hearing the news of their deaths. My father’s brothers didn’t want me, so when the last of the dirt was tossed on my parents’ graves, I was on a plane bound for Indiana.

  “Bill and Susie were great caretakers. They had my mother late in life and were nearing their seventies by the time I came to live with them. Within months of each other, they passed away during the summer I turned thirteen. They were all I had in the states. My uncles still didn’t want me, so the state placed me in foster care, where I stayed until I maxed out at eighteen.”

  “That’s quite a story, Mr. MacFadden. I was wondering where your accent came from.” Out of everything I said, the one thing that sticks with her is my accent? It’s not a secret that I come from Irish descent. Granted, the Irish accent’s faded over time, but it’s still detectable by those not expecting it, or in this reporter’s case, she’s a fucking moron.

  “Can I ask you a few more questions?” I’m not sure what else she can ask that isn’t a matter of public record or hasn’t been answered in another article. I keep hoping that if I tell one of them my entire story, not leaving out a single detail, they’ll eventually leave me alone. It’s really not going over the way I’d planned. As soon as one article releases, it’s only days until I’m being scheduled for another one, probably wishing I’ll have some untold secret that I’ll tell to the hottest reporter they have to offer.

  “I’ve got time for a one more. Shoot.”

  “What got you into photography? More importantly, how did you get where you are today?”

  “I started off shooting anything nature. There’s nothing more beautiful than a waterfall cascading over ominous looking rocks or a sunset fading into a lush field. Then one day, a beautiful woman stumbled into my dinky little studio begging for headshots. I’d taken pictures of people and was fairly good at the graduation images or family portraits, it just wasn’t my passion. Long story short, she was picked up by some huge agency in New York and my career, what you see today, began.”

  “Fascinating,” she mumbles, jotting notes on a pad of paper.

  “Will that be all? I have other engagements for the evening.” It’s a lie, but if I don’t stop this interview, she’s just going to keep trying to find something that doesn’t exist. Not that I have a problem spending the night with an attractive woman, but playing twenty questions makes for really bad foreplay.

  “I’ve got all I need for the article. I’m headed out to grab some dinner, do you want to join me?” Now, because I’ve been around this type of woman nearly all my life, I’m able to pick up on her subtle hints. It’s a gift that not many people have. Call it a talent, if you will.

  The shift of her weight in her chair. The clenching of her crossed thighs. The slow and calculated bounce of her feet, directing my attention to her six-inch stiletto heels. The rise and fall of her breasts that are pushed high, begging for my gaze to divert to her cleavage. The rolling of the pen between her parted ruby lips. The mischief in the depths of her chocolate brown eyes.

  She wants me. She wants me bad.

  “What was your name again?” I ask, leaning forward, giving her every indication that I’m taking the bait.

  “Clarissa,” she whispers breathlessly. “Clarissa Daniel.” I love this effect I have on women. It’s a gift and a curse. For her sake, I’m going to end this before it even has a chance to start.

  “Clarissa, you seem like a very nice young woman. I’ve read your work; you’re a talented reporter. I feel it necessary to tell you that I don’t mix business with pleasure. I never make a habit of having an unprofessional dinner with a professional contact. It never ends well.”

  “Oh,” she sighs in defeat, her face heating more with every pass
ing second. “I’m so sorry, Mr. MacFadden. I wasn’t meaning anything by it. I was only looking for a chance to get to know you better. For the article, I mean.”

  Nope. She wasn’t.

  I’m nearly one hundred percent positive that she wasn’t looking to get into my head. It’s more like she was trying to give me some.

  “It’s best that we cleared the air. I’m sure it’s much easier to write a piece on me if your opinion isn’t tainted by improper conduct.”

  Standing and shaking her hand, I escort her to the door. While waiting for the elevator, Clarissa sways back and forth, staring at the numbers. Her discomfort is obvious. She’s dying to get off this floor, out of the hotel and away from me.

  Once she’s officially gone, I meander back into my hotel room, trying to figure out something to do tonight. I’ve been home a few days now and haven’t really gone out or done anything. Nicholas is catching up with his family, so that counts him out.

  I could always hit up a club or bar—try to find a piece of ass for the night. Or I could call someone I’ve fucked before. Decisions, decisions.

  I’ve got to be careful, being in my hometown and all. That old saying “You don’t shit where you sleep” most certainly applies. The only girl I’ve hit multiple times is Janelle, a chick I met a few years back while she was bartending at the spot Nicholas and I usually go to when we’re back in Indiana. She’s a good little country bumpkin that makes one hell of a cowgirl and an even better reverse cowgirl.

  I try to withstand the urge to contact her, not because I miss her, but because it’s been a few days since I’ve gotten any. For a man that’s used to once, sometimes twice daily, by day four my resolve wears pretty thin. Scrolling through my apps on my phone, I find my version of a little black book that catalogs the women I deem worthy of a second round, or in Janelle’s case, a seventh. Each woman’s contact is separated by geographic location, including an image, phone number and their rating on my scale. Makes it a little easier finding a warm pussy for the night without having to worry about ending up with a dead lay.

  This app is conveniently named FB. No, I’m not referring to the social media site; however, it’s disguised to look that way in case my phone is ever stolen or hacked. FuckBook is solely for repeat flyers.

  Finding Janelle’s photograph, I click on it and place the call. My number always shows blocked on the opposite end—another genius idea the creators of this little app had. Since this was invented, I don’t have to worry about changing my number every time I run through a new girl for the second time.

  “Hello,” she says, answering on the third ring. I guess by now she gets how I operate or she has a habit of answering restricted numbers.

  “Hey, Twix. How ya doing?”

  “Dex, baby, I’ve missed you so much. Are you back in town?”

  “Sure am. Want me to come by?”

  “Give me an hour?”

  “I’ll be there around ten. Take your time.”

  *****

  At a quarter past ten, I step out of my car and make my way to her apartment. It’s been a good year since I’ve seen her last and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t ready for this homecoming. Bitch has a pussy that grips my dick like a fucking vice. It’ll be the first time in a while that I’ve had a good lay twice in a row. God knows, lately, with the exception of the girl in France, the bad has been outweighing the good, and it’s my dick that suffers.

  Knocking on her door, I’m more than shocked when she appears on the other side. Her face is just as beautiful as I remember; it’s everything else that’s changed. I’m not young by any means, but twelve months has done some serious damage to her.

  Dark circles line her puffy eyelids, her brown roots are showing significant neglect compared to her platinum blonde dye job and she’s gained some weight—it’s got to be at least twenty pounds or so. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look all bad, though. I’ve never been into thick women before, but the plumpness in her tits and hips is doing things to me. My cock springs to life when I think about burying my face in her cleavage that’s spilling out the top of her bra.

  Christ. What the hell is happening to me? I’m a man that is focused on the outer beauty of things. Always looking for the imperfections to drown them out. And now? I can’t wait to be nine inches inside of it. It really has been too long.

  “I’ve missed you, baby,” she coos, dragging me over the threshold by the hem of my shirt.

  Thick, beautiful and aggressive. Yeah, I’m about to have a great fucking time.

  As soon as the door clicks shut, I don’t waste my time divesting Janelle of her shirt. Walking us to the couch, I sit and pull her down to straddle me. Grabbing a tit with each hand, I test their weight before ripping the straps down her arms and the cups from her breasts. Capturing a nipple with my mouth while still palming the other, I continue to nibble and lick until her head falls back and soft moans escape her lips.

  This new side of Janelle has me wanting to see how far I can take her. I bite down harder on her nipple and she’s calling out my name, pushing her chest into my hands, begging for more. Still, I continue further, rolling and pinching her other nipple with my thumb and forefinger as she cries out out, lost in her own personal heaven and my cock’s hard as hell.

  “Strip,” I command, shoving her off my lap. I need to bury my dick inside her one way or another or I’m going to burst.

  Without any hesitation, she peels the tight black pants off her legs, her thong not far behind. Unclasping her bra, it slides down her frame, collecting on the floor with her other garments.

  “Fuck, you look sexy, Twix.”

  “Why do you always call me that? Twix? And you’re accent gets sexier every time I see you,” she asks, slowly spinning in a circle, giving me a front row view of her ass.

  Second time today? Maybe it’s thicker since my last trip home and I just haven’t noticed. Accent or not, she keeps shaking her ass in my face—I’m gonna shove my dick in it.

  “I call you Twix ‘cause you’re sweet as candy. Now get back over here.” Or maybe it’s because it’s easier to call all the girls one name or nothing at all.

  She faces me and begins to saunter back in my direction. Her frame which used to be more straight-lined, is now sporting curves I’m almost certain every woman should be forced to have. I take my wallet out of my pocket and set it next to me on the sofa.

  She stands between my legs, a flirty smirk on her lips. I know exactly what she can do with that mouth. I quickly unbutton my shirt and take off my tie.

  “Knees,” I demand and she complies, almost excited that I’m being forceful. Looks like someone’s been reading up on what it takes to make a man happy. Maybe I should rethink that whole NDA thing. Janelle seems like the kind of girl that would most likely be turned on by it.

  Thank you erotic romance novels. Men around the world are singing your praises.

  I move to undo my belt and zipper but her hands swat me away. Never breaking eye contact, she slowly unzips my pants, reaches inside and impatiently pulls my cock out. Stroking me and licking her lips, she casually dips her head, catching the head with her tongue.

  “Just like that, Twix,” I say, breathless. I want to ram it down her little throat, but this tease she’s doing has me biting back my urges.

  Gliding her hand from root to tip, a bit of pre-come glistens for a brief moment before she tastes it, humming in approval. Watching her lick the underside of my dick then opening her mouth wide to accommodate my size, her gag reflex nonexistent, she takes me until I feel the back of her throat. I grunt loudly and her lips turn up … this girl is smiling against my cock. I grab hold of her hair, shoving her down until her lips hit the base of my dick, only for her to let out a moan. “Fuck,” I say, watching her shake her ass in the air.

  Quickening her pace and her hand’s grip on my dick, I’m just about to come when she slows and giggles a muffled laugh. I push her backward and she sucks me further. Pulling myself from her h
oover of a mouth with a pop, Janelle falls back to rest on her calves.

  Standing, damn near smacking her in the face with my cock, I rip my pants and boxers to my ankles, grab a condom from my wallet and sheathe myself. Janelle wipes away the moisture from her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

  Turning her around, I pull her down into my lap, her back to my front and her legs outside of mine. She peeks back at me confused until I slap her on the ass, just to watch the aftershock. Lifting herself up slightly, Janelle positions my dick between her lips and begins to work her way down, wincing as I stretch her walls.

  Being done with this slowly and surely routine, I raise my hips, slamming deep and hard into her tight pussy. Gripping her hips, I raise her, only to roughly buck my hips into her again.

  “God, baby, you’re fucking huge. Give me a second.”

  And now I remember why she’s only a seven. Can’t keep her mouth closed. Always wanting to sing my praises and tell me how large I am.

  Breaking news. This just in. I already fucking know. Have known since I was nineteen and took a ruler to my junk. Don’t judge me. All men do it. It’s a rite of passage or some shit.

  “Shush, Twix, just lean back and enjoy the ride.”

  “But, baby, oh God. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

  Enough is enough. Rolling my eyes, I continue thrusting while she lies back on my chest. Seeing my tie on the arm of the sofa, I grab it and wrap it around her head, across her mouth, effectively shutting her the fuck up. She’ll probably still talk, but at least I won’t have to make out the damn words.

  Hopefully, I’ll be able to finish before she rips it off, though.

  Trying to make sure that I get as good as I give, I grip her hips tighter and thrust like my life depends on it. There’s no time for long strokes here. I’ve got a mission to accomplish. If it wasn’t for her tight pussy that’s always wet as hell, I’d cut her loose.