Car Sex & Beyond: Valet's Sex Life

"This dame sings songs in time to my 'thrust-in.' She is singing in some foreign tongue that I don't understand. Just as I am ready to hit that soft ass with a rim shot, I do a reach-around to grab her by the pussy, as the president instructed us. But there isn't any pussy, this broad got a pretty big dick, and it's as hard as a three-day-old bagel. Which tells me I was doing a pretty good job at the back door."

"I open my eyes and see through the veil that I am probably fucking the diplomat or his twin brother. I don't say 'nuthin,' but when I pull out my dick, the 'broad' runs wide-legged out of the room, and a maid comes back with a covered tray. I lift the tray cover, and there is a damp towel on one plate and three hundred dollars on the other."

Look buddy, to me, an ass is an ass, and I need all the dough I can get to keep my mom in a rest home, so don't fuck up my 'ting.'"

"Ok, Pedro, I wouldn't dream of messing up your deal, and the bitch I was fucking didn't have a dick unless someone cut it off. So we're good, buddy."

"Dat's great," says Pedro.

I listened to Mario's story and assured him I had no intention of interfering with his new job.' I don't have a problem with gay stuff. It just ain't my hoopty doo.

A COMIC SEX ENCOUNTER

Did you go on a porno hub and see Mazzy's sex tape? Well, it's for real!

If you have a TV and tune in to one of the late-night shows, you have seen Mazzy Marzan, the red-headed female comic with a bit of a nose but two very lovely 'bazooms.' She's funny as hell, and most of her jokes are a bit off-color, but the audience loves her. Marzan lives in our building, and I'll inform you of a brief encounter that took place in the elevator.

Late one night, Marzan, recently divorced (you probably followed her legal status in the supermarket chronicles), was returning from an engagement at the Comedy Club on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood.

Marzan is about forty, in excellent shape, and frequently works out in the exercise room. Maybe she's the one who has complained about people using the gym machines and sweating on them. The management has since asked people to bring a towel to dry off the equipment. But who pays attention to the rules?

Marzan is not small-breasted, but I'm not here to breastfeed, although she was fun to suck on. When she pulled her pink Land Rover, the small one with a factory-customized paint job, into the building entrance, she said,

"Harrison, I'm feeling a little tipsy. I really shouldn't be driving. Could you park the car and see me up to my apartment?"

(as Mazzy is drunk, the spellings get slurred)

I thought to myself, who the fuck is Harrison, but I responded,

"Sure, Miss, would you like to sit in the lounge as I park?"

"No, I'll go down in the parking structure with you, and we can take the elevator up," and she starts giggling.

No sooner than I'd parked the car, then Ms. Marzan reached for my zipper. I pushed her hand away, and we got out of the vehicle. I held onto her arm as we walked to the elevator. I wasn't sure if her cock grab was an accident or if that was what the drunk comic had in mind.

I got her into the elevator, and at that hour of the night, it arrived quickly. Once the elevator door closes, Marzan gets down on her knees, and with the strength of an Amazon, I don't mean the delivery people, grabs me at my knees. She reaches up, and with one strong yank she pulls my pants down and my dick winds up in her mouth.

"No," I said, "No blow jobs. You want sex, you gotta let me fuck you."

She popped my cock out of her mouth like a Champagne cork and positioned herself facing the elevator wall holding on to the railing. I did the honors of pulling down her suit pants and lace panties.

"Wow, what a toned, strong ass you have."

"Yeah, but dona you dare try to fuck it, my asshole the size of a silver dime."

Marzan was slurring her speech.

"So, ya gonna fuck mee or make me standa her wit my ass in the air Mr. Bellhop?"

Who could say no? I reached between her ass cheeks and put a finger in her twat,

"You are wetter than a fireman's hose."

She's got her big tits waving in the breeze so I start sucking on one, then the other. Her nipples are big and long like Atlantic City taffy.

At that her knees crumble and she's on the floor. I hit the stop button and the elevator halts.

"What the fuck, Mrs. Marzan?"

"You can call me Mazzy."

"Ok, Mazzy, what are you doing?"

"I'm a gonna sucka your cock," she says with an Italian accent.

"No, you're not. I'll fuck you if you want, but no blow job."

She's still on the floor. When I say that, she starts laughing.

I slipped my dick between her legs, reaching around her waist, cupping my cock's head to coral it down into her snatch.

I fucked her right there on the elevator floor at leisure; it clocked out at over five minutes.

She quipped, "You'd butter finish fucking me before you light my lady bit on fire from da fiction."

She was still laughing until I gripped her thighs tightly and sunk Charley as deep as he could go. She opened her mouth, and her eyelids rolled up. She took a deep breath as I blasted the walls of her cervix with my slush fund.

When I pulled out, I'm sorry to say, my jizz leaked onto the elevator floor.

Now she's hiccuping on her knees,

"What a mess you made, Dominic. Hit the button and tell Sotty to beam me up."

We got up to the 11th floor with her hanging on my neck. We walked with her arm over my shoulder to her apartment door.

"You fucked me, Melvin. Do I have to give you an extra tip?"

"No, Miss Mazzy, was it a good fuck?"

"Oh, jess, it was."

I manage to find her door key attached to her car fob; the lock clicks, and the door swings open. We are inside. I can see the bedroom is straight ahead. I walked her to the bedroom, it's a small apartment, and I deposite her on the low-to-the-floor bed. She is out like a light and snoring. Her blouse is half off, and her big tits attract me, so I lean in and give each one of them the last suck of the night, which provides me with an erection but sadly, Mazzy is too far gone to fuck again.

I went into her bathroom to wash off Charley, hoping I didn't pick up any Comedy Club STDs. I washed my dick off in hot water using her washcloth, squirted her fancy perfumed French lotion on her side table onto my shaft and balls, and raced back to my station, where a blue Cadillac was waiting, the motor still running.

The film of our fucking, care of the elevator cam camera almost cost me the job. My face wasn't visible, but the image of Marzan taking my dick in her drain pipe was as clear as possible. I had to sign away any rights to the film or lose my job. The house manager had connections with a porno film company in the Valley called 'ErectoSplash.' He sent the film to them. They paid Marzan 50k for her rights. She accepted, provided the footage of her face was blurred when she was blowing me, so no one could be sure it was really her.

When I next saw her, she blurted out,"

"You're never really famous until you have your own sex tape," and then she gave me her trademark laugh.

"I guess I should have given you a good tip, but you gave yours to me."

"No worries, Miss Marzan. I'm here whenever you need me."

"I think once was enough. I hardly remember what went on, but my agent says I blew you, and you fucked me."

"Never tell tales about a lady,'' is my motto, and it will be our secret. But can I compliment you on one thing?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Your pussy was so wet."

"Yeah, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I guess I owe you a blow job."

"Naw, what you gave me was quite enough, Miss Marzan."

"Call me Mazzy, honey. What was your name?"

It really doesn't matter."

"Anyway, the blow job offer is open if you ever want to collect."

"I'm more into fucking."

"Oh, yeah, now I remember."

If you go on Porno Pub and type in the search box, 'Maybe Marzan,' my dick is as clear as the cross on the steeple top of that church on Wilshire, and I assure you that beauty of a butt is hers, Ms. Mazzy Marzan!"

NO GOOD DEED GOES UNREWARDED

Mr. Neibor, whose name, to my ears, defied any nationality, was a Hollywood bigwig. He was not a large man and fit easily into the back seat, sinking in so only his bald head was visible in the gray Rolls Royce that picked him up each morning and transported him to studio headquarters off Beverly Blvd. If it wasn't for his shiny bald head, you might have thought there was no one in the back seat. He was not a young man. You don't rise to such heights in the movie business in your youth, except for Quentin Tarentino, who like Harvey Weinstein is alleged to have worked his dick high into Uma Thurman, another man's wife. Hollywood is not a safe place for anyone these days.

There was a bit of the Mafia in his face, and Neibor's eyes never stopped moving behind the rimless spectacles. Since he was chauffeured, I never had the opportunity to speak to him directly, but I got to know 'Honeybunch,' his wife, very well, too well!

Honeybunch was a third-string dancer; she'd been in the musical 'Chicago,' the Bob Fosse film, and spent a lot of time with Fosse's dick dancing inside her. Neibor plucked her out of the chorus line and fucked her off-stage. She must have performed admirably because, in four weeks, he made her his third wife. She was about 32 years old at the time. Neibor was probably 70, but ageless. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn he was ninety.

Honeybunch drove a Jaguar convertible colored a metallic deep crimson red. The car's paint was finished with a clear top coat that reflected like a mirror, and showed off any admiring fingerprints. It was the model that came years after the Jag XKE that revolutionized sports car styling. The current model looks more like a bathtub on wheels but viewed from the rear, it resembles the muscled ass of an exotic dancer and is acceptable to stare at.

You know how all those rap singers are constantly adjusting their cock and balls, something Emily Post would have condemned? Well, Honeybunch didn't have itchy balls, but she always had her hand on top of where her vagina was situated. I'm not suggesting she was a transsexual or a sex-change or a gender redo, whatever expression is now in vogue, but until I got my finger in her yogurt pie, I wasn't sure.

Mr. Neibor lived in the penthouse. Most Beverly Hills condos label the top floor a penthouse, but that is a misnomer. It's just the top floor. A real penthouse is a house that sits on the roof and may have a garden, a pool, or a place to sunbathe in the nude.

Neibor's penthouse was a real penthouse. The keyed elevator would open right inside the door. Neibor owned the entire floor. The view was 360 degrees; on a clear day, you could see the ocean, Catalina, and the mountains, and if you twisted your neck, you could see the slums northwest of the city in the valley. No one looked in that direction.

Honeybunch's parking spot was on the fifth floor of the parking structure. The first time Neibor ever spoke to me was as if he was Napoleon, that's when I saw he had a gap between his two front teeth and one tooth is a snaggle tooth that made him look a little goofy, but I kept a straight face as he dressed me down.

"When you see this car with the blond inside, you, Sir, get the fuck off your ass and run to it. Under no circumstances do you let my wife park the car. She gets out, you get in, and you park it. You don't ask for a tip or put your grubby hand out, Capeesh? You do it right, and there will be a half C-note for you every month. If you fuck up, your family will have to move out to the desert and search for your burial site. Capeesh?"

I nodded, "Yes, sir."

"Save the 'Sir" for your mamma's dick."

"One more thing, you call her Miss Honeybunch, but for me, she's my Honeybunch. I eat her out every day, and if I taste anything that smells of cock, I will have you castrated with a rusty butter knife."

Then he patted me on the back and laughed a long whiny cackle,

"Just kidding, kid--NOT."

Yes, I capeesh.

I guessed that Neibor was Italian or was trying out for a part in Godfathers 4. I learned later that he was connected to a New York mob family who jimmied him into the executive job when they were owed a favor on a big personal loan to a CEO. It turned out that Neibor was more than qualified. He had a degree from Harvard and a graduate degree from the NYU film school and a good sense of what script would make a successful film. He only picked winners.

Daryl Zanuck only made films from plots taken from best-selling novels. Neibor came up with scripts that no one had ever heard of before, but the moviegoers went gaga. And you didn't have to fly a 200-man crew out to Nairobi. You could film the whole story in a studio set, well, almost. Think of the film 'Reservoir Dogs,' filmed primarily in an oversized garage.

As he turns and walks away like a marionette, I'm thinking of the first time I banged his missus. She'd told me to drive the jag up to the 5th floor, and she'd come along for the ride.

When Honeybunch said, "Make it as fast as you can."

In violation of 'Neibor edict,' I was driving like a maniac up the five floors of sharp turns because Miss Honeybunch thought that was exciting. All the time I'm winding up country, heading up the ramp, out of the corner of my eye, I see her doing something with her hands. When I get up to the 5th floor, I turn and see she's got her skirt rolled up, and she is warming up with her long fingers in her pie, jerking herself off.

"Fast driving gets me so wet," she says, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

That's when I made the mistake of saying,

"Do you need any help?" and she hands me a moist wipe and a foil-wrapped condom saying,

"Go to work, handsome, but use the wipe to ensure there ain't no cock odor from your pubes, or my hubby will catch on."

And that was the first of many delightful trysts I competed between the luscious thighs of Honeybunch. I was careful to wipe down my nuts, and hubby never caught on, until my fatal error.

Sometimes a man can control his timing, I mean the moment of ejaculation, sometimes not. On that final occasion, the parking area outside the lobby was filled with cars. As a result, people were parking their own vehicles, and the 5th parking level was filled with arrivals.

Honeybunch said,

"We're going to have to take this party into the apartment, or we'll get caught fucking here in the parking area."

I didn't mind because squeezing into her zinger in that little car could screw up your back.

"Sure, Miss H."

Stupidly I'd brought the third draft of my screenplay based loosely on my experiences as a Valet with no mention of Honeybunch's juicy snapper. The story's tentative title was 'Rudy, the Valet who Could.'

I was going to ask Ms. H to give the copy to Mr. Neibor. I learned a while back that there were three ways to achieve success as a screenwriter. The first one was taking the boss man's mandrake up your kazoo, the second way was meeting the boss in some gay bar and sticking it in the boss' ass, and the third way, and least traumatic, was to attain a recommendation from a close friend of the big cheese, his wife, daughter, or mistress.

I was going for the third option and figured Ms. H could put in a good word for me after the many times I'd put a good dick in her slit. I tucked the screenplay under my arm, and the two of us ran from the car to the 5th-floor elevator to make our getaway to Neibor's penthouse.

I lay the script between the upright cushions of the sitting room settee. As usual, Ms. H is in a rush. She hands me the condom and the wipes, and quick as a genie materializing from a bottle, I'm staring at her ruby slit. We are on the couch in the sitting room just feet from the entrance to the apartment.

I'm gloved and humping like a crazy man. Ms. Honeybunch is making yoga moves on my dick, flinging her legs wide and then crushing my cock, when she sees on the security tv, that has a camera in the hallway, the big boss 'Neibor' is in the private elevator and taking his key out of his pocket ready to put it in the door. Ms. H makes a downward move, and her contracted yoga muscles tighten on my dick, and she rips the condom off my cock. Now her inner space is floating in cum. The rubber is lodged deep in the back of her endless cunt. Of all the times I've fucked her, I've never hit her back wall.

She pushes me off, shouting, "He's at the door!"

"Who?" I stupidly ask.

"Neibor!"

I run, still nude, dragging my clothes, and stand at the servant's exit in the kitchen, waiting to make my escape. I hear Ms. H saying to her hubby,

"Fuck me Neibor. I'm hot, wet, and horny, just waiting for you.

Oh no, I think, Honeybunch's quim is filled with cum juice and a floating condom. But true to form, Neibor refuses to fuck her and wants to eat her out. Instead of shoving his penis in her vag filled with my natural cum lube, he dived headfirst into her crotch, mouth first.

I heard the final story the next day. Neibor goes right for the lips of her vagina, gets busy, and tastes something unusual. His front snaggle-tooth catches onto the edge of the condom. Honeybunch looks up to see Neibor's head lifting with that dangling cum filled condom caught in the gap between his front teeth.

Honeybunch is no fool, she tells hubby,

"I was using a new cum flavored Lube, and the condom on her super vibrating dildo came loose."

Neibor doesn't believe her, but he says nothing. He's been around long enough never to trust a woman.

That night he reviews the tape on the door cam and sees who is inside the apartment and fucking his wife moments before his arrival. My face comes up as the nine of spades, which in Sicilian fortune telling is the death card.

The next time I see Mr. Neibor he is getting into his chauffeured Rolls. He smiles like the village priest and hands me the 9 spades in between the folds of a 50-dollar bill. I say

"Thanks, Sir."

"Oh, no need to thank me, you deserve to get yours," says Neibor.

I'm holding the door for him as he turns and shouts,

"Minchia!"

I figure 'Minchia', which is a new name for me. I googled it and learned that in Sicilian dialect, it means 'shit.'

I want to tell him I hate the 50 dollar bills as they look like 5's, but I say nothing except,

"Thanks, sir."

Later I go through my pockets and find the fifty and the nine of spades. I don't know what that card means, and I figured Neibor was at an all-night poker game with Frank Sinatra Jr. I pocketed the card without googling its significance.

A few days later, two Mexicans covered with prison tats park in the lobby driveway late one night. They open the trunk of a Ford black and white Crown Victoria, like the ones they sell at the police auctions, and the two are arguing in Spanish.

I walk over and say, "Amigos, you can't park here."

And that was the evening, June 10 of this past year, that my career as a valet ended. Mr. Neibor had decided to have me murdered!

As I stopped to inform them, the two Mexicans pushed me into the foul-smelling trunk, tied my hands, and slammed the lid shut, locking me in. I'm in the dark, the car starts up, and we are on the freeway headed, I imagine, out to San Bernardino where civilization slowly gives way to the vast expanse of the desert graveyard.

When the car lights of a vehicle behind us enter under the bent trunk lid, I see fast food wrappers and foul-smelling empty beer cans fill the trunk.

Finally, from the bumpy ride, I realize we are now on a dirt road. I'm being thrown up and down. I'm thinking about Neibor and Honeybunch but this time the blond is not giving me an erection. The car comes to a stop.

I smelled the alcohol the men were drinking. I heard them as they began to argue. I don't know what they are fighting about, but it sounds serious.