"Hey... where a' fu' are you? I'm come by Frida' night... um... wif twins, MAN! Fu'ing twins..." BEEP! The mechanical voice from my answering machine filled in the details. "Monday... three... twenty... five... AM."
I had turned off the ringer on my phone and let the machine take all my calls since I had started on my 'triumphant' book promotion. I was an overnight sensation after eleven years of cranking out ad copy, working celebrity scandal rags, writing pseudo-famous people's biographies and sucking up every inane copy gig that had filtered through the well-known book-of-the-month hack writers.
The calls from my longtime friends had been intermixed with those requesting my presence at some benefit, like the underprivileged inner-city felines foundation and the obligatory interviews from journalism students at the local community college.
My agent was pissed with me. I had appeared on a highly rated late night television show wearing jeans, a long underwear shirt, canvas tennis shoes and a Pendleton shirt tied around my waist. After the show aired she called my hotel room and screamed into the phone.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, Kurt Cobain?"
"What are you talkin' about?"
"Jesus Christ, Sammy. You are a serious author now, not some teenage anathema!"
"I thought the interview went well."
"You asshole! You showed up on national TV looking like some refuge from a 'Lollapalooza' concert!"
"Molly, I got to the gig with ten minutes to spare, okay? Somebody with curly hair tried to get on the plane at the last minute. The airport Nazis held up the flight for an hour while they took her off and punched her in kidneys until she pissed blood. Then they had to pile her back onto the plane so the rest of us could see how our tax dollars are being spent."
"Why didn't wear something more appropriate when you got on the plane?"
"Hey, that is appropriate dress for the Northwest. We dress to the weather not to some image."
There was a pause and her mood softened somewhat. "That's a good line. Try to work into your next book."
"Whatever, we'll talk when I get back home."
"Yes, we need to talk."
After that, I hung up and asked the desk clerk to take messages for the rest of the night. I was too wound up to sleep so I decided to take a walk. New York City is the greatest place in the world if you've got a case of insomnia. By foot or by cab I saw the brightest lights on Manhattan Island, that night. As the sun rose out of the Atlantic Ocean, with a slow motion orange dolphin's leap that ended in the Pacific, I felt the itch to get home.
I told the cabby to take me to the airport.
"Which one?" he asked.
"The one that has the big airplanes." I snapped. I had seen enough of the sights. I longed for the gray horizons of the Northwest and I was lashing out at everybody.
My flight was scheduled for the afternoon but I wanted to go home, now. I approached the desk and asked if I could get onto an earlier flight. The girl behind the counter took a long hard look at me.
"You want to go space available and you have no baggage, is that right?"
"Yeah." I nodded. Then I added, "You're not gonna beat the bottoms of my feet with broom handles because of that, are you?"
"I saw somebody's grandma got roughed up in Seattle yesterday because she 'looked suspicious' and changed her departure time."
The clerk was not amused. I could sense her finger poised above some red button behind the counter that would hose me down with mace so the airport goons could kick me repeatedly in the testicles.
Suddenly, her eyes lit up.
"Did I see you on TV last night?"
"Yeah, I did an interview on..." She didn't let me finish.
"Oh my goodness. I've heard so much about your new book. Sure, I can get you on the next flight out." She stared at her screen while she tickled the keyboard. "It leaves in thirty minutes. I'll have 'em hold it for ya."
"Thanks," I nodded distractedly. Everybody wanted to be my friend now that I was known.
She looked both ways down the counter to the other early-morning employees and leaned forward. In a conspiratorial tone she asked if she could have an autograph as she pulled a Post-It from under the counter. I scribbled my name and under that I wrote "Buy my book."
Once on board the plane I called on the airplane's cell phone to my hotel and asked them to send my overnight bag and my messages to Seattle.
"Would you like me to read your messages, sir?"
"Are you outta your fuckin' mind? This line costs me like twenty dollars a minute, dumb ass. Just fax 'em or something."
"Yes sir," was his curt response.
"I'm sorry." I sighed aloud. "That's not what I meant to say. Please, just mail them or..."
"Yes sir." The phone went dead in my hands.
Damn! What was I becoming: one of the shit heels I hated when I was struggling? I simply couldn't get used to people treating me like a celebrity when inside I didn't feel any different. It was easier to respond to people when I was 'one of the herd' instead of a de novo VIP. The recognition got me a last minute flight but I didn't feel any different. People just treated me different and I hated that. I was definitely going through celebrity diabetes: the sweetness of success felt wonderful on the palate but the 'dizzy spins' the morning after still terrified me. I ordered several drinks, closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat.
Molly was waiting at the "Arrival Parking" turnaround when I stepped out of the airport terminal. The overcast skies were a welcome sight. As my flight raced the sun across the sky to the Pacific Ocean we lost about hour in the contest but the Seattle gray tones overhead rarely cede the hour. It was always 'quarter to drizzle' here. It was reassuring to know what the weather was going to be most days. In that respect, Seattle was like LA but without the skin cancer.
Arriving at my house, Molly disappeared as I checked my phone messages. She hated the people I hung out with and thought they were crass, deluded hillbillies who were using me to get women and stay high. I found that ironic because those same people were the ones who graced the pages of my latest book: the only one to make the "Times Best Seller" list.
Before I left for New York she told me, "You are an important writer now. Get some friends that reflect your new position in the literary community."
"Great, I'll hang with a buncha 'wienie smokers' who write love poems about their boyfriend's asshole," I blurted out. We hadn't spoke about it since.
I shuffled down the hall. As I turned the corner into the living room I spotted Molly spread over the arm of the couch; her clothes in pile, feet on the floor, with her face buried in the cushions, offering up her naked charms for my entertainment.
This was her personal submissive position. She had insisted on a "subby pose in order to play out her need for purgation. I, on the other hand, was still unsure about my feelings with regard to "our game."
The lady could be a pretentious bitch but she was built like the Grand Coulee Dam. The firm round curves of her ass cut sharply into the back of her thighs and her tapered legs were a temptation no heterosexual male could resist.
Sprawled over the arm of the couch, her ass cheeks called to me. "I need to be paddled," they repeated over and over. Her pale smooth was broken only by the crease below her cheeks and those on the back of her knees.
I stepped forward and slapped her cheeks hard with my open hand leaving four distinct welts where my fingers contacted her creamy white flesh. Her body bucked and she moaned into a pillow. I grabbed a handful of her dark hair and pulled her head up out of the cushions. My hand connected with her ass again.
She squealed and twisted her body.
"Sammy, I missed you," she panted.
Her body jerked again. "I'm yours to use..." she whispered.
I let go of her hair and she fell facedown on the couch. I unbuckled pants and dropped my boxers. Spying a small patch of dark hair peeking at me between her plush thighs, I lunged my body towards it before I was fully erect and pumped at her open body rapidly. Clutching at her hips, I increased my tempo. I wanted to punish her for something. Anything. Maybe it was for the treatment I was receiving as an established writer, the treatment I never got before.
When I was busting my hump to break even, the working class folks were my only allies. The owner of the local Mexican restaurant gave me a discount and beamed when I showed up for dinner, while the editor of the neighborhood newspaper wouldn't even return my phone calls. When my book made the NY Times Best Seller List I made sure any interviews were booked at my favorite Mexican restaurant and that someone on an expense account, picked up the tab for the spendiest meal on the menu. Hell, Arturo, the owner, wanted me to marry his pretty but plump eighteen-year-old daughter when he found out I made a living, albeit meager, as a writer.
Who knows, if not for my "big break" I might have satisfied being the pretty Castilian's secret lover. Hell, she might've been my wife by now.
But now I was "important," according to my agent.
"Turn around!" I barked at panting brunette.
She pushed herself up off the arm of the couch. With her knees tucked into the hollow of her elbows I grabbed her hips and rammed my cock deep into waiting body. She fell forward and bit into my shoulder as her breath came in short gasps.
"Punish me, Sammy..." she whispered. This made me angry--she was always telling me what to do--and I slammed myself harder into her slippery folds. She moaned deeply in response.
"Jees... us!" Her release began with a body length shudder. I felt muscles deep inside her body spasm and watched her chin fall onto her chest. Mouth open, she twisted her face into a gruesome orgasm mask. Then her head rolled back onto her shoulders and she was finished.
I pulled my angry cock from her body and she quickly dropped to her knees as I let loose with a thick white stream of spunk that hit her open mouth with the first shot.
She offered up her tongue as a target and I pushed forward to shove my still pumping dick into her warm mouth. Swallowing in silence her fingers tugged gently at my balls.
I took two steps back and Molly fell forward on her hands and knees still gasping for air. Then I hiked my pants up, turned and shuffled into the kitchen without a word. A bottle of expensive local Pinot Noir called out to me from the wine cooler and I popped the cork. Molly padded into the kitchen and stood behind me. With her hands in front of her neatly trimmed dark stripe of pubic hair and her eyes downcast she stood passively next to the refrigerator.
She stared at the floor while she spoke. "When you called I said I wanted to talk."
"You say lots of things," I responded as I swigged the mellow red fruit from the bottle.
"I... I want to be your slave 24 but I want..." She seemed reticent to continue.
"I don't know what you want."
"I don't know, either."
She inched towards me haltingly. "I would serve you until you can figure that out..."
I turned my head away from her advance.
"Go home, Molly. I'll call you if I wanna fuck." I lingered on this last word. Maybe she'd get the message and leave me alone for awhile.
She nodded, turned and quietly walked away. Moments later I heard her car start and pull away. I felt like a retard for being such an asshole to this beautiful and open woman but I was angry at the world at that moment--angry because I didn't feel appreciated when I was unknown and then somehow became deified when a critic, 3000 miles away, was entertained by a story about a bleary-eyed weekend I spent with friends chasing women and over-indulging in illegal narcotics. It didn't seem fair to me before but now it felt as though I did not deserve this meteoritic rise above the others who, just like I had, struggled day to day. It seemed more like a crap shoot than a talent search.
I called my friend, Phillip, who had left the drug and alcohol fueled late night phone message.
"Hey, burnout. What's the deal with these twins?"
"What?" was his addled response.
"You said you had twins for some for us."
"Oh, Sammy. It's you. Yeah man, these twins said they'd fuck us both if you were really famous."
"Man, I'm a writer. Not a rock star. What did you tell 'em?"
"Dude, I said you wrote a book and they said they'd read it."
"What makes you think they can read?"
"Shut up, man. They're hot."
"All right, all right. I'll have Molly over when they get here."
"Oh, man. That chick hates me."
"I'll let you fuck 'er."
"She'll hate me more."
"Well, try to make 'er come, dude."
"Whatever. Later, man."
It was set. I called Molly's machine when I knew she'd be at work. I didn't want to talk to her and I told her to be at my place Friday night.
Staring out the window at Puget Sound that night I thought about my place in the world and how much it had changed. Few people cared about me when I was a struggling writer except maybe the burnouts and dope fiends I cut high school with. I trusted them, but not many others. Now everybody wanted a piece of me and attempted to convince me they were on my side from the beginning. That, I could not stand. Tell me you never heard of me before but do not blow rays of sunshine up my trousers. I'm from Seattle, we burn easily.
Molly showed up on time and I made her strip and stand in front of my 35th floor window. A couple of thousand sets of eyes could drink in her slow curves and creamy white skin if they were watching. I made her masturbate for a while and then told her to put her arms above her head. I was bored.
The entrance buzzer broke into our play time.
"Dude, buzz me," a voice crackled over the speaker. I pressed the "enter" button. When I turned back to the living room Molly stood with her arms akimbo and her eyes blazing.
"I'm leaving if that stupid hillbilly is coming up here."
"Shut the fuck up and get back to that window. You wanna be a 24 slave you can start right now!"
A flicker of fear shot through her eyes when I stormed forward, stopping ten feet from her. She blinked deliberately, swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and slowly plodded back to the window.
"Hands above your head," I barked. She stared out towards the Sound and complied.
The bell rang and I glanced towards Molly's back. I could see her entire body turn crimson knowing I was going to let my friend see her playing a game that she thought was ours and ours alone.
"Don't you dare move." I heard the bell ring again.
I opened the door and my friend staggered through it with two women who appeared identical. Both were thin with narrow hips and small but well-formed breasts. Their blonde hair was almost white and they both had light blue eyes that set off their dark red lips. They both giggled as they stumbled through the doorway. The trio had started partying long before they arrived.
"Dude this is Tammy and Timmy." Phil mumbled.
The closest blonde held out her hand. "My real name is Tamera."
The other slurred, "And my name is... Timera." They all laughed at some private joke.
"Come on in. See what I have in the living room for ya."
Tammy or Timmy, I couldn't remember which was which, spoke first. "Fuck... You've got a naked lady in front of your window." She was breathless at her discovery.
"Oh, Sammy's got the coolest stuff," my friend
I strolled forward and slapped Molly's ass cheek hard before I whispered into her ear, "Now you're a real 24 slave." Molly nodded slowly with her fingers still laced behind her head.
"Fuckin' aye," one of the twins piped up. "Is she for everyone?" I nodded. "Get over here," the one twin barked pointing at a spot on the floor two feet in front of her. Molly turned slowly and walked to the spot. The girl pointed to the floor again. Molly knelt without being told, and with her eyes downcast, asked how she could serve the girl.
The blond giggled. "Lick my sister's clit." Molly reached for the other sister who shrieked and jumped away.
"Fuck, she'll do anything we say?"
"Of course she will." I smirked.
The first twin stepped closer to Molly and grabbed a hand full of hair pulling her head towards her zipper.
"Unzip me..." Molly reached forward. "With your teeth." The girl finished.
Molly sat back on her heels and moved her chin towards the girl's pants. After several attempts Molly got the girl's zipper undone and sat back. The first twin laughed aloud at this and tugged her skin-tight pants off quickly.
"Now lick my slit," she spat through clenched teeth.
"Call her, 'slave,'" I added.
"Come on, slave. Get over here," The blond had pulled her leopard print bikini briefs to one side so Molly could please her. Molly inched forward on her knees craning her neck so she could oblige the woman. The girl grabbed the back of Molly's head and roughly pushed her face forward into her wispy pubic hair.
"Nobody can lick snatch like a girl," she cooed as Molly began to work her tongue up and down between the puffy lips of the blond's pussy. When Molly hit the blond's pleasure center the girl's knees buckled and she pitched forward slightly. She made a hissing noise and ground her hips harder into Molly's face. The blond appeared to enjoy my dark-haired slave's tongue dancing across her clit.
The other twin and my friend were also involved in the festivities by now. She was rubbing her pelvis into his crotch while they kissed standing directly behind the perverse scene in the living room.
I leaned over and slapped Molly's ass hard with my open hand causing her to moan aloud. The girl grabbed Molly's head and yanked it from her damp folds.
"Jesus Christ. That's a little too much stimulation," she panted with a chuckle. Then she shoved Molly's face back into her glistening sex.
"Ish." The blond hissed once Molly found the right spot with her tongue.
"She... is... awesome. Sis, you gotta try some o' this."
Her sister didn't answer. My friend has pulled her pants down to her knees and had two fingers buried inside the other twin's slippery pussy and was stroking her insides.
"Ohhhh." Molly's twin signaled to me. I stepped closer and she grabbed my shirt to pull my face to hers. Her tongue darted into my mouth as I felt her body shiver. Molly was doing exactly what she was told and this twin was loving it.
Everybody sampled Molly's lusty desires that evening. My raven-haired slave had a half-dozen orgasms, including an earth-shaker when one of the twin paddled her firm ass while Molly tickled the other twin between the legs with her outstretched tongue.
Somehow Molly's urges were satisfied best when she was pleasing others.
At the end of the evening she stood by the door; naked, head down in subservience to our guests while they complimented me on the well-behaved nature of my pretty pet. Each kissed her longingly and touched her face gently. Molly's nipples turned hard as a stone at the attention lavished on her. The trembling of Molly's stomach muscles told me the attention was sending my slave into orbit though she kept her head bowed like a shy little girl too self-conscience to look an adult in the eye.
Sucking on my cock after our guests left, she masturbated until I asked her how she liked being a real slave.
"Did it please you?" she asked in a quiet voice, her eyes never leaving my erect flesh only inches in front of her face.
I cradled her chin in my hand and pulled it up so she had to look into my eyes when she spoke.
"Did you like being my slave?" I asked her again. What answer I was looking for, I couldn't tell. I needed to know how she honestly felt about her role play that evening. Sometimes we ask questions we don't really want answered. This was not one of those questions. Molly had numerous orgasms but I wanted to know if this made her happy, sad, used, abused, or feel like she wanted to punch me in the balls.