Brando (18 page)
Shit. If I blow my cover, the fun is over. Sure, being a celebrity
has its perks, but I want to keep my anonymity intact. I just want to
be a regular guy talking to a regular girl – a girl who’s
turned on by the person I am, not the person she thinks I’m
supposed to be.
“Um…animated chicken?” I blurt.
“Ha! Right. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
I relax and don’t speak, letting the silence gather some
weight. I listen to her breathing, until she breaks it.
“So you’re Irish, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought this app was supposed to connect with local people?”
“Well, I’m in
LA. They haven’t banned us from America. Not yet, anyway.”
She laughs again. “Sorry.”
“I can do an American accent, if it makes you more
comfortable.”
“Ok. Sure.”
I put on my worst Southern impression.
“Gurns. Jayzus. Cowbuwoys.”
“Enough!” she says, laughing. “Now
I’m
the one who’s offended.”
“Welcome to my world.”
This time she’s the one who leaves the silence, and the tension
that rises in it is starting to get me going. I’ve been trying
to have a proper conversation with people all day and ended up
feeling like a chump for it, but this girl has me feeling like I
could spend the whole night just listening to her laugh. My mind
races trying to put a face to that voice.
I don’t even realize it, but my hand is on my cock, massaging
the increasing stiffness that’s responding to this girl’s
voice even faster than my brain.
“I…oh Christ…I probably shouldn’t say
this…” she says, after a while.
“Say it,” I say, softly.
“I…just got out of a relationship. I don’t know
what I’m doing…”
“Why did you break up?”
She pauses, debating whether to reveal the reason. “He cheated
on me.”
“Ouch.”
“With my roommate, my best friend – well, ex-best
friend.” Her breath hitches.
“Fucking hell,” I say. “That’s cold.”
“Hence the lavish new apartment with a dripping sink you can
probably hear in the background.”
“I thought that was you.”
She’s silent.
“Sorry, crass joke.” So much for trying to lighten the
mood.
“No. I liked it. I’m smiling.”
“Good, ‘cause if that offends you then we may as well end
the conversation now. It only gets dirtier.”
“Does it now?”
“It does if I have anything to do with it.” I set my
empty glass on the table and exhale, slow and deep.
The breathing on the phone gets louder.
“Tell me what you look like,” I say, my voice low, as if
I’m whispering into her ear.
“What do you want to know?” she says, her words getting
drawn out by her fluttering exhalations.
I swallow. My hand goes to my crotch. I’m already way too hard
to be wearing boxers still, but I wanna take this slow. And I don’t
want to scare her off either.
“What color are your eyes?”
A pause. “Blue. My turn.”
“Green,” I say. “And how tall are you?”
“Five six. You?”
“Six two.”
I listen to her breathe for a moment more and then take the plunge,
keeping my voice strong and steady to keep her in the game.
“Tell me what you’re wearing.” I’m not
asking— this is a demand. But one that’s as respectful as
I can make it sound. Because right now she can either hang up on this
call or stay on the line and see just how far we can take each other.
I wait.
She’s got the phone so close to her mouth I can hear the gentle
wetness of her lips as they part, the soft smack of her tongue in her
mouth. I can almost visualize her red lips, open and round as she
struggles to control her breathing.
“I’m wearing…a pink tank top…”
“How’s it fit?” I prompt her.
“Um. It’s tight…”
“Anything underneath?”
“No bra.”
“Good girl,” I say, and I hear her hiss a little.
“Touch your tits, and tell me how they feel. Go easy.”
“They’re…” She shifts the phone, and my mind
goes crazy imagining what she’s doing to herself. “Big,
but not too big. A little bigger than a handful…”
“Slowly…”
“The skin is real soft…smooth…just firm enough
that they’ve got a good shape, just soft enough for you to have
fun playing with them…” She stops to giggle nervously.
“Am I doing this right?”
“Shh. Touch your nipples…roll your finger around
them…squeeze them…” I hear her inhale sharply.
“Holy shit…” she murmurs. Her arousal is like a
lightning bolt to my cock.
“What else are you wearing?” I go on.
“A pair of tight, black leggings.”
“Good,” I growl with approval. “You lying down?”
“Yeah.” I hear a rustling sound. “I am now.”
“Put your hand down there.”
Her response is immediate, a small gasp. “Fuck…I’m
so…”
“That’s a good thing. Just go with it. Now close your
eyes…”
“Ok…”
“Squeeze your hand between your thighs…”
“Yes…”
“That’s where I wanna be. Smelling you. Tasting you.
Devouring you,” I
whisper, with just enough authority in my voice to let her know how
much I mean it. My hand’s fully in my boxers now, releasing my
cock, which is so stiff even the tightness of my designer underwear
can’t strangle it.
“Fuck…” she pants, and then I hear her gasping for
air like she just ran a marathon. “Stop…stop. This is
way too much, way too early for me.”
Damn. Game over, and my dick is still hard enough to cut diamonds
with. “Ok, yeah. We can take a break. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…nothing’s wrong. That’s kinda the
problem.”
“You’re gonna have to explain that to me.”
“I don’t know anything about you. And here I am
fucking…
wet…
just from the sound of your voice.”
I take a second to absorb her words, but they’re not adding up
yet. “Ok? I still don’t see where the problem is.”
I laugh, trying to put her at ease again.
“I literally just got out of a relationship – like
yesterday.”
Though my hand’s still on my cock, even I can’t jerk it
to relationship talk. She’s feeling guilty, that’s what
it is. I can fix that.
“Exactly. Yesterday – not today. Not now. Right now
you’re a single woman who’s looking for some intimacy,
and I’m a single man looking for a night of distraction. That’s
it.”
She pauses, and I hope she’s getting back in the zone. “Still,
it’s…”
“You’re rationalizing this, but I know for a fact your
body’s telling you something different,” I soothe. “We’re
both consenting adults, right? Come out and meet me.”
I don’t want to push her too hard, but there’s something
in her voice that’s practically begging me to take her out of
her comfort zone and give her a night she’ll never forget.
I tuck my cock back in my pants and get up from the couch.
“I…” She hesitates, still breathing hard. “I
want to, but I can’t…”
“Take a shower and come and meet me at my place. I live in the
hills. Trust me, you’re gonna love it. If not, you can turn
around and go home. No harm, no foul.”
She giggles a little, and I can still hear how her nerves are
unsteady.
“This is…
so
unlike me.”
I start making my way around the den, picking up the empty bottles
that I’ve left around there throughout the day. I’ve made
up my mind: this is the girl I’m going to fuck tonight, even if
I have to clean up to do it.
“It’s pretty out of character for me too, which is why
it’ll be perfect.” It’s partially true, at least.
I’ve never had one of these booty-callers come directly to my
house before. But for some reason I trust this girl.
“This is crazy…”
“Come on. If I can make you wet with my voice, just imagine
what I can do with my hands. I can be gentle, too.”
She laughs again. The anxiety falling away piece by piece. I know
she’s not trying to play hard to get, but I have to admit I’m
kind of enjoying the chase.
“And what happens, exactly? We fuck, and then, bye?”
“Put a little emphasis on the fucking part.”
“That doesn’t sound like it would work. I’ve never
done the whole one night stand thing.”
I bring the bottles into the kitchen and make my way back to the den,
where I settle on the couch again.
“Call it a ‘greasy pancake fuck,’
then.”
“A what?”
“A ‘greasy pancake fuck.’
You’ve never heard of a ‘greasy pancake fuck’?
Don’t tell me I have to explain what a ‘greasy pancake
fuck’ is.”
“Would you stop saying ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”
“Sorry.”
I let the silence hang in the air.
“Ok,” she says, giving up. “What’s a ‘greasy
pancake fuck’?”
“I’m glad you asked,” I say, with a smile she can
probably hear. “Well you’re single now, and soon enough
you’ll be dating again; seeing what the world has to offer
beyond that ex of yours – who sounds like a real scumbag by the
way. You’ll be meeting guys, living life, and having sex. Well,
if you come over tonight, it’ll be the ‘greasy pancake.’”
“The ‘greasy pancake,’”
she repeats, unconvinced.
“Right. The first pancake you make of a batch, the one that’s
just there to soak up all the grease. You’re probably angry at
your ex right now. Maybe depressed. Maybe lost. You could spend weeks
getting over him. Flicking through the photographs, reliving the
arguments in your head, throwing out the fluffy stuffed animal he
bought you for your birthday that you thought was cute but was
actually just a last-minute purchase at the gas station.”
She laughs. “It was a keychain, actually. And some wilted
flowers.”
“Or, you can come over here, and just fuck all of that shit
away. A big blow-out. Just let yourself loose, and cut yourself off
from the past. Mentally, emotionally.”
“Physically,”
she adds.
“Exactly.”
She pauses, and I hear her inhaling deeply as she considers my
argument.
“You make it sound pretty easy.”
“Because it is.”
“I barely know you though. We’ve spoken for – what,
twenty minutes?”
I glance at my phone and realize, to my shock, it’s been almost
forty. “What’s the difference if it’s twenty days?
The only thing that happens when you wait too long is you miss out.
You’re frustrated, I’m bored – the stars are
aligned right now. And I like you.”
“There you go with the astrology again.”
“Like you said – it’s fate.”
She sighs.
“If you feel uncomfortable at any moment,” I say, “you
have my permission to kick me in the balls and run away. Just don’t
steal any of my stuff, please.”
I wait for what feels like years until she answers again.
“Ok. But I don’t even know what you look like.”
“Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”
I give her directions to my house, and we break the call. I toss the
phone onto the table and lie there for a few moments, staring up at
the ceiling. Her voice is still echoing in my mind, that colorful
laugh, and the stuttering gasps. I’ve been called a superficial
bastard many times in my life, but if those people could see how
turned on I am right now by nothing but a disembodied voice and a
snappy wit they’d retract their statements. Ok, maybe it’s
still true, and maybe I’m still hoping she’ll be a
knockout, but frankly, even if she isn’t, I’m ready to
put in a prize-winning bedroom performance on her.
I get up and shake my limbs like a prize fighter getting ready for
the fight of his life. My balls are aching from how fucking hard she
got me, and it’s all I can do to save myself for when Miss
Mysterious shows up.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, as I take out a bottle of
nice wine and some glasses, “what if she doesn’t even
show up?”
I stamp the thought all the way into the back of my mind – like
I do most things these days – and jog on up to the second floor
to change.
I get dressed and go back downstairs. I put a little
music on in the den, something slow, but edgy – none of that
sugary shit. I like a little dirt in my music. Then I proceed to walk
around the room, checking my watch as I pace like I’m scared of
getting stood up in my own home.
I stop as soon as I hear a sound, not sure if it’s real, and
too involved in my own imagination to hear it properly. Was that a
car door slamming? I hear footsteps on my porch.
And there goes the fucking doorbell.
Continue reading
Bootycall
by JD Hawkins
I would like to dedicate this book to my readers. Your support (and
money) helped me follow my dream, quit my corporate job to do what I
love full time. I would also like to thank Kate Upton, Jennifer
Lawrence and Rihanna – I appreciate your support but please
stop messaging me, I’m happily married.