Callie Kim and the Measure of a Man

Fuck, she felt so soft, I almost lost my balance. That first caress, that initial taste of her body with the promise of so much more to come... I'll never forget that feeling for the rest of my life.

Then, for what couldn't have been more than two glorious minutes, Callie just stood there passively, ringed by strangers, trapped in a sea of people as I furtively explored her body.

Playing with her tits, pressing myself against her ass, I could my length growing, hardening into her softness. I thought of the bathroom again, but only for a moment. I knew I had pushed her boundaries as far as I could tonight.

Tonight wasn't about sex, I reminded myself. Tonight was about establishing the rules. Tonight was about showing I could be dominant, not just cruel.

When the beat changed, I turned Callie around, forcing her to face me. Then, I leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"I want you to fuck him so good tonight," I breathed. "Give him everything you have. Make him believe he's the last man in the world."

Callie looked at me with a strange expression. Fear, confusion, relief, and surprise all competed to color her eyes.

"When does he fly back to New York?" I asked her.

"Sunday night," she whispered back, her lips barely moving. "A red-eye, around midnight."

"See you then," I said, grazing my mouth against her earlobe.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered back. "This--this isn't you..."

"It wasn't," I whispered back, stepping away from her. "But it is now."

...

After leaving the club, I drove around Los Angeles for over an hour, the radio pumping out music that was more familiar to me: Aerosmith, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Smashing Pumpkins, the songs of my twenties. It felt...

Honestly, it felt fucking great. More than that, it felt like fate. Sick as it is to admit, I didn't feel like I was taking control of someone else's life. I felt like I was taking control of my own.

When I went home that night, I looked at the clock. It was 1:25AM.

I took out my phone and set a timer: 34 hours, 35 minutes.

A countdown to Sunday at midnight.

I wanted to give Callie one more weekend with her fiancé, and him one more weekend with her. One last, beautiful weekend before she became more mine than his.

It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

...

At the stroke of midnight on Sunday, I sent the text message that I'd typed out exactly 34 hours and 35 minutes earlier:

"is he gone?"

I stood there, glaring down at my phone, channeling all the energy I could muster into conjuring those flashing dots.

Then, I saw the three sweetest letters in any language splash across my screen:

"yes"

I already had my keys in my hand.

...

It took three knocks on her door before Callie cracked it open, less even than the latch chain would allow.

"Do I have to keep knocking?" I smiled.

"It's really late, Nate," Callie said warily. "We have to be at work in a few hours."

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" I said, holding up an unopened bottle in a brown paper bag. "We're taking a sick day tomorrow."

"I can't do that," Callie shook her head.

"Sure you can," I nodded. "You're gonna earn it."

"Nate, I... my roommate," Callie said, her voice raising an octave. "She... she could--"

"She'll assume you're still with Jacob," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Or maybe she'll think you're with Chris Ryder."

"Nate, please--"

"I'm not leaving, Callie," I said flatly, the smile fading from my face. "So open the door."

I watched her face droop. She took a deep, heavy breath. Then, she reached up and slid the chain from the latch. She took a step back as I opened the door.

Inside Callie's tiny apartment, I closed the door. It was an inviting space decorated with cute but inexpensive items. As I looked around, I saw only one bedroom door.

"You don't have a roommate," I said quietly. "Do you, Callie?"

Callie looked down.

"You lied to me," I said, shaking my head in disapproval. "That can't happen again, Callie. I'm going to let it go this time, just this once, because I know this is still new for you. But if I catch you lying to me again, Callie... I'm gonna have to punish you."

She inhaled sharply, her body shuddering as she tried to suppress a sob.

"It's okay," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Let's have a drink. Get a couple of glasses."

Without looking up, Callie walked mutely into the kitchenette of the little apartment, returning a moment later with two empty ceramic mugs.

"This is a good bottle, Callie," I said, pulling away the brown paper bag to reveal a Glenfiddich 18. "Don't you have any real glassware?"

"They're in the dishwasher," she whispered.

"Then I guess these will have to do," I said, twisting the cap off and pouring two fingers of rich brown liquor into the first mug. Then, I tipped the bottle towards the second mug.

"I don't want any," Callie said, shaking her head.

"Yes, you do," I said, pouring an equal amount of liquor into her mug. "We're celebrating tonight. The start of something... new."

"Why are you doing this?" she said, her voice breaking. "You--you don't have to do this..."

"Here," I said, holding the mug up for her to take. "Let's toast."

"I--I thought you were a good guy," Callie said, shaking her head. "I trusted you, Nate. You... you're not like this. This isn't who you are!"

"From now on, when we're alone," I said, pushing the mug into her hand. "I want you to call me Mr. Walsh."

Wrapping Callie's fingers around the handle, I raised the other mug.

"To beautiful girls," I said, clinking the mugs together. "And the crazy things we do for them."

I upturned the mug and poured the scotch into my mouth, letting it warm my throat as it slid down my tongue.

"Drink it," I said to Callie, setting my mug down.

She lifted the mug to her lips and took a tiny, reluctant sip.

"All of it, Callie," I said.

"It's too much," she whined. "It's too strong..."

"And here I thought you liked it strong," I said. "Drink."

She sighed, lifting the mug to her lips a second time. This time, she inverted it, pouring the liquor down her throat.

"Ughhhh," she said, instantly making a face as she set the mug down. "It--it burns..."

"You'll get used to it," I smiled, recapping the bottle. "Now, show me your room."

"Nate--"

"Mr. Walsh," I corrected her instantly. "Nate is your coworker. But that's not who I am, not tonight. Tonight, you call me Mr. Walsh, and you do what I tell you."

Callie just stood there, looking at me forlornly, unable to speak. I folded my arms, letting her process the situation, taking the opportunity to drink her in.

She was dressed down, wearing the kind of comfortable clothes you put on when you aren't expecting anyone: a white cotton undershirt, stretchy pink shorts with an elastic waistband, and the same dark zip-up hoodie she'd been wearing at the concert. Her makeup was light and minimalist, a much more natural aesthetic than what she normally wore on camera. Her long black hair, shot through with light brown highlights, was swept to one side, curling over her left shoulder like the tail of a cat.

But to me, the most striking thing of all was the fact that she was wearing glasses. They were stylish, plastic tortoise-shell frames with rounded, slender rims and a cute little bridge that arched over her pert, narrow nose. These may seem like trivial details, but I'd never seen Callie in glasses before. Hell, I didn't even know she needed corrective lenses.

I wondered whether she had dressed like this because she thought it might somehow dissuade me. Maybe she thought that if I saw her this way, I would realize that she wasn't the vixen I'd seen through my camera lens, that the flirty temptress on her Instagram account was just a projection that she played for professional gain.

But if Callie meant for all of this to turn me off--if she thought that seeing her in glasses, a hoodie, and minimal makeup would diminish her appeal--then she had badly miscalculated. Because the fact was that I had never wanted her more.

There was something so intimate about seeing Callie like this, surrounded by the personal effects that littered her apartment, that warmed the blood pumping through my veins. Millions of men had seen Callie as she appeared on TV and online, but how many had ever seen her like this? I was sure that even Chris Ryder had never gotten this close to the real Callie Kim.

And truthfully, seeing her like this only served to confirm that the real Callie Kim was every bit as gorgeous as the version she played in the public eye. As delectable as she looked in full makeup, body-hugging dresses, and high heels, seeing her like this only proved that she didn't really need any of that stuff. She was an honest-to-god natural beauty, the kind of girl who had nothing to hide, nothing to compensate for with contour lines and soft lighting. Even when she wasn't trying, Callie exuded an easy, irrepressible allure that couldn't be bought.

I could feel the primal call pounding inside my chest, but I resolved to be patient. Knowing that my victory was very nearly at hand, I wanted to revel in the anticipation for as long as I could, to wait until my blood was boiling and the pressure inside me was ready explode.

"You know what?" I said, taking the cap off the bottle once more. "I think we need another drink."

"No, Na--I mean... Mr. Walsh," she said, sounding out the words awkwardly. "I really can't drink that stuff. It makes me sick..."

"No, you're used to cheap liquor," I said, pouring us each another finger of scotch. "This is top shelf. Goes down nice and smooth."

I lifted the mug for her to take it, but she just stared at it.

"Come on, Callie," I said, tilting it towards her. "This is the easy part."

Hesitantly, she reached up and took the mug, cradling it reluctantly in her hands.

"Why don't you give the toast this time?" I smiled.

"I don't feel like it," she said quietly, looking down at the brown liquor.

"Should we text Jacob and ask him to help us?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Or maybe you have Chris Ryder's personal number in your phone? Should I look?"

"No, I--I'll do it," she said quickly, her eyes meeting mine. "What... what should I say?"

"That's up to you," I smiled.

I watched her face as she searched for words, the scotch in her stomach already starting to cloud her mind. Finally, I saw her sigh, and I knew she had figured out what she would say.

"To... to secrets," she said meekly, barely lifting her mug.

"Ooh, I like that," I grinned. "To our little secret."

I clinked our mugs together, then poured the liquor into my mouth, feeling it wrap around my body like a velvet robe.

"Drink," I said, looking at her as I set my mug down. "It's not a toast unless you drink."

Slowly, she lifted the mug to her lips and tipped it back.

"All of it," I said sternly. "All of it, Callie."

I watched Callie closed her eyes tightly, scrunching up her nose as she struggled to force down scotch that was almost as old as she was.

"Ughhhh," she sighed, sticking her tongue out in distaste as she finally set down the empty mug. "Pl--please... I--I can't drink anymore..."

This time, I knew it was true. Callie's face was starting to flush, her cheeks bright and pink, her eyes wet from choking down the liquor. She was visibly drunk now, already starting to lean to one side.

"Good girl," I smiled, recapping the bottle a second time. "Now, if we're done drinking, then why don't you show me your bedroom?"

The second drink had done the trick, because this time, there was no protest, no standoff. Instead, Callie turned and shuffled unsteadily towards the bedroom door as I followed behind her with the bottle.

"Here," she said, gesturing drunkenly with her arms as we stepped inside. "This is it..."

I looked around. Her room was filled with basic, inexpensive Ikea furniture, just like the first-apartment-out-of-college that it was. The walls were mostly decorated with cork boards full of photos, ticket stubs, playbills, and other mementos. She had fairy lights strung along the wall, over the windows and above her bed.

"That's the same hoodie you were wearing on Friday," I said, sitting down on her bed, setting the bottle of scotch on her nightstand. "You must really like it."

I patted the seat next to me on the bed, but Callie remained standing off to the side.

"I do," she nodded, fidgeting with the zipper.

"It's his, isn't it?" I said, patting the bed again. "It's Jacob's."

"It was," she said, slurring her words. "Til I stole it..."

"Did you?" I laughed, pleased at how the liquor was gradually beginning to loosen her up. "Well, if it's stolen, then I think maybe you should take it off."

She shook her head no, clutching the unzipped sides tightly around her.

"Callie, you can wear his hoodie or his ring tonight, but not both," I said, putting a callous edge into my voice. "Which one's it going to be?"

She looked down at the ring around her finger, then back at me.

"Mr. Walsh," she pouted, hugging the hoodie closer to her.

"If you don't choose, then I will," I snarled. "And whatever I take, I'm not giving back."

Callie frowned, fidgeting with the zipper, pulling it idly up and down. Then, she turned away from me and shrugged her shoulders, letting the hoodie slide down her back onto the floor.

"The glasses, too, honey," I smiled. "I like the sexy librarian look, but I want you to look me in the eyes."

"Fine," she whispered, sullenly removing her tortoise shell frames and placing them on the bedside table. "Are you happy now?"

"Not yet I'm not," I shook my head. "I'm getting pretty sick of watching you pretend to be some kind of good girl, as if I didn't see you making out with a man who is old enough to be your father."

"Mr. Walsh--"

"As if I didn't see you follow him into his bedroom," I continued. "Like the little Hollywood slut that you are..."

"I didn't do anything with him!!" she cried, spinning around to face me. "I told you--I told you that wasn't my fault!!"

"How many times have you cheated on Jacob, huh?" I sneered, looking her up and down. Now that the hoodie was off, I could see her bra through the white cotton undershirt. "How many guys have you fucked since you moved out here?"

"N--none!!" she cried, her eyes wet, her voice hoarse. "I--I don't cheat on him!!"

"We both know that's a lie," I spat. "I know of at least one, but I bet there are others."

"That wasn't--I didn't--I DIDN'T!!" she cried, crumpling drunkenly to her knees, her phone falling to the floor. "I DIDN'T CHEAT!!"

"I know you have," I said, picking her phone up off the floor. "I bet I can prove it."

"What--what are you doing?!" she cried, crawling towards me as I unlocked her phone.

"Let's have a look at your DMs," I said, opening up Instagram. "Let's see what you've been up to..."

"Hey, n--no!!" she yelled, grabbing frantically for her phone. "You can't--that... that's my private business!"

As soon as I opened up her DMs, I saw hundreds of messages, which wasn't surprising given that her following on IG was now over 400K. And just as I'd suspected, many of them seemed to be from men.

Quickly, I tapped the button to send a message, which showed me a list of suggested contacts. There, at the top, was Jacob, followed by a handful of girls that I assumed were Callie's friends. But then, as I scrolled down, I saw a name that I recognized: Davi Carvalho, the Black Brazilian capoeira instructor we'd profiled several months earlier.

"Give--give that back!!" Callie cried, reaching drunkenly for the phone and tumbling at my feet.

I tapped his name, and it opened up their chat history.

"I fucking knew it," I grunted, shaking my head.

Scrolling back through their message history, I saw that they'd been chatting on-and-off for months now. The messages were sporadic, maybe every couple of weeks, but the frequency wasn't what mattered. What mattered was the content.

It didn't take a forensic specialist to see that Davi was trying to fuck Callie. It was evident in the conversation itself: he was messaging her at night, often on weekends after 1AM, and the messages themselves consisted of addresses, the names of clubs, or simply "U up?" And when he messaged her during the week, it was almost always in the form of thirst traps: mirror selfies, gym videos, and... finally, there it was: a dick pic.

"I fucking knew it," I snarled, my muscle tensing instinctively as my heart pounded in my chest.

I'd had to scroll back quite a ways to find it, several months at least. Davi had sent it on a Saturday morning at 3AM, clearly drunk and horny enough to take the biggest swing he could.

And it looked like a pretty big swing. You couldn't really tell from the photo, but I reckoned that he and I were in the same zip code, somewhere in between 7" and 8" long.

But what really mattered wasn't the fact that Davi had sent Callie a dick pic. A girl like Callie probably received them all the time, because random guys on the internet are horny and stupid enough to think that this actually works.

No, what mattered was her response.

Because Callie didn't block him. And she didn't ghost him. Hell, she didn't even wait until the next morning to message him back.

What Callie sent him, just minutes later, was a picture of her biting her lower lip and covering her eyes with her fingers, the engagement ring that Jacob had gotten her sparkling in the center of the frame. This image was accompanied by a message:

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't see that"

This was a guy that had groped her on live television. This was a guy who, at this point, had made his intentions for her profoundly, abundantly clear. This was a guy who had sent her a picture of his big, Black dick during booty call hours, and how had she responded?

By feigning innocence. By pretending she hadn't seen it. And by continuing to text him. Which she did.

Callie hadn't sent him any nudes, at least none that I could see on IG. There was nothing that could be read as flagrantly over the line, but she had continued to message regularly with him, even after the dick pic. And although most of the messages and pictures were coming from Davi's side, Callie had sent him some mirror selfies of her own, often wearing tight, body-hugging gym attire.

And much of this--months of this off-and-on messaging--had come after Davi's dick pic. Callie knew that he was brazenly trying to fuck her, and she kept on texting him anyway.

"So you're a good girl, right?" I said, grinding my teeth as I scrolled through the messages. "You'd never cheat, right?"

"I don't cheat," she sulked, kneeling on the floor and shaking her head, her body swaying from side to side. "I--I wouldn't cheat on Jay..."

"Then what's this, hmm?" I said, turning the screen towards her. "What do you call this, Callie?"

She gazed up and saw the photo of Davi's cock, followed by the image of her hand covering her eyes.

"Ohmygod," she gasped, grabbing for the phone again. "That's--that's private!!"

"How many times have you fucked him?!" I snarled, holding the phone out of reach. "How many times did you cheat?!"

"I DIDN'T!!" she screamed. "I--I... I NEVER FUCKED HIM!! I SWEAR!"

"But you wanted to, didn't you?!" I sneered. "I bet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?!"

"NO! NO! I WOULDN'T!!"

"Then why did you keep texting him?" I sneered angrily, scrolling through the messages. "How do you explain this, huh?!"

I turned the phone back towards her, forcing Callie to look at the most salacious photo she'd sent to Davi. It was a gym mirror selfie, like the others, but in this one Callie was showing off her round, firm bubble butt, encased in black yoga pants and turned deliciously towards the camera. In the photo, she was looking away, as if innocently unaware that she was taking a thirst trap.