Justin, Women, & What He Does

(Note to Readers: This is an entry in the Halloween Story Contest 2023. All characters are 18 or older. The main character seeks sex with Justin, so even though she finds the sex disturbing, during and after, the author has not submitted the story in the Nonconsent/Reluctance category. A reader might disagree, however, so please consider this a warning about possible triggering. The sex in the story incudes vanilla F-M, planned F-M-F group, and F-F lesbian.)

***

"I think you're really hot, Camille," said Justin, "but I don't love you."

"I'll settle for hot," said Camille, wondering if she was drunk enough. "The last thing I'd ever want is for you to pledge undying devotion to me, and crawl after me like a puppy with separation anxiety." No, she concluded, definitely not drunk enough.

"I'm trying not be toxic," said Justin, slurring a little, "so I should love someone before having sex with them."

She believed that Justin was drunk enough, or more than. She also couldn't help enjoying the sight of his looks, even while slackened. She thought he could make a good living as a model. "When was the last time," she asked, "you loved someone enough to fuck?"

"This is a new policy," he said with the earnestness of a convert, and of a guy on his fourth drink. "Didn't you see Breanna's post, calling me toxic?"

"I've blocked her." Camille decided against saying why. She didn't think Justin would catch on to convoluted yet nuanced accusations, related to the importing of shoes from China. "Was the sex good? For you?"

He chortled. "Yeah." Then he ditched the smile. "Only, she thought consent wasn't too clear, in the second hour."

Camille's pupils widened. She hoped in vino veritas applied to Justin's endurance. Although what he was drinking wasn't wine. "What'll it take for you to love me?" Then, quickly, "A brief infatuation, tonight only."

He puzzled over that, then said, "What d'you think of the environment?"

"I think that there definitely ought to be one."

He tossed back the rest of his weird cocktail from the celebrity bartender, set down the glass smartly on the polished oak of the bar, then put his hand gently on Camille's hand. With an wavering smile he said, "I love you for being responsible."

She then proved how responsible she was, by gesturing to the celeb for her refill, while setting up a ride-share, and then using her phone to pay for overnight parking of both of their cars.

***

There were times when Camille might fret about her apartment being a mess. This wasn't one of them. There were times when she might want her lover to be deft and attentive in building her arousal. This was a time when she wanted a meat puppet. Hence, her first-ever recruitment of Justin.

She parked Justin on the sofa and spread a quilted comforter on the expanse of hardwood floor that wasn't cluttered.

Even in his vague state, Justin frowned. "Izzat comforter got, like, goose down in it?"

Camille chuckled. "No, Dude. There weren't any critters harmed in the making of this thing. It's stuffed with what they call 'down alternative.'" Her chuckle grew to a splutter. "You know what I think 'down alternative' should be? Up!"

"I get it!" Justin guffawed, upper body shaking with mirth.

"Good," said Camille, relieved that he wasn't braindead. She stretched out on the comforter and said, "Please join me, down on this Up."

He did, and they lay together side by side, in alcohol-slowed groping and unbuttoning. Camille, who held her liquor well, was already returning to full lucidity.

In her earliest experiences with sex, Camille didn't like any of it. There were plenty of situations, and guys, that turned her on, but she was frustrated by the lack of sensation during the events themselves. Then there was a late-night coupling on a beach, which gave her a wild orgasm from penetration by her fellow coupler, while they lay on packed sand. This spurred her to weeks of fact-finding (eagerly assisted by a number of men), which led her to conclude that what she didn't like was sex in a bed. Soft, yielding surfaces didn't arouse her. The floor, and her partner, solid but with slight cushioning, got the attention of her nerves and muscles, which thrilled, and pushed back. She didn't want pain, though. Shock? Maybe a little.

Justin didn't appear to think about sex much, drunk or sober. He didn't need to. Blessed with a seraphic face and an exercise-unnecessary body, Justin was doted on by several young women who saw him as the prime local resource of male eye candy. Some of them cut and styled his waveable auburn hair. Others picked out clothes for him. Camille didn't know who paid. Breanna continued to join him for dance classes, apparently even after calling him toxic. Camille stayed out of all that, and winced at these women's willingness to throw away hours of their lives on Justin's bimboy-fication. But now, as she saw the perfect teeth behind his parted lips, she understood the impulse.

She hadn't dressed for easy or provocative undressing, and silently she cussed herself out for that. When she rose that morning, she thought only in terms of what would be practical and appropriate to wear for the day. At that time, sex was the furthest thing from her mind. A day's work annoyed her to the point of wanting a physical escape. She had bolted from her apartment without thinking about changing clothes. She was in the habit of being told she was hot.

Now, she'd settle for giving Justin access to her pussy, and if necessary would get out her boobs to hype him up for the task. He was in fact groping her upper body as they kissed, but maybe just to keep his face positioned to lip-lock with hers.

"Your kissing is wonderful," Justin murmured.

Camille jolted, almost biting his lip and making her kiss less wonderful. His voice wasn't his drunken slur or his clueless doofus monotone. It was a romantic flourish that surged into the soul she didn't think she had. Her heart pounded in panic. Her problem was no longer his love, if any.

What the hell is wrong with you? she demanded to herself. Get up and leave, now! No, this is my place. Kick him out. Call him toxic. Just get rid of him and then come to your senses! But she didn't move, and could only stare at the beautiful man who, with four words, had transformed her into mush.

Her skin tingled as his hand moved down her side, his caress conveyed through her t-shirt. Her quim swelled with moisture. She couldn't fathom how his eyes had cleared, his smile had become so poised and symmetrical.

"May I see all of you?" he asked.

No! she bellowed through the caverns of her brain. This is just a tension release fuck! Yet she sat up and lifted her t-shirt. As she did, with the fabric blocking her face, she panted, "If you show me yours."

"I'd be delighted," he said, raising up (on the Up) on one elbow, and opening his unbuttoned shirt. This word choice made Camille wonder if Justin had been possessed, demonically or otherwise. This didn't stop her from unhooking her bra, and tossing it aside to reveal what she called Droopy and Droopier.

Swiftly and deftly, Justin disrobed, always with his eyes on Camille, and giving her a Buddha-like smile. She struggled to keep up, her underwear snagging on a left toenail while still taut around her right knee. When she finally yanked it free in frustration, she felt a drop of her fluid go flying.

She shoved him onto his back, an action he could have resisted if he chose. She straddled him roughly, now looking only at his cock, which she lifted above his thighs. His face terrified her, and she thought his voice would too. Get him in, she instructed herself, get me off, get it over with.

Her vulva dripped onto his glans, where precum was beading. They were almost too wet as she engulfed him, with Camille's pubic bone smacking onto Justin's. She didn't actually feel his girth until her rise, when his swelling blocked her from exiting, which she didn't want anyway. She humped rapidly, finally realizing that she forgot to put him in a condom.

Her body didn't care about that. Vaginal walls squeezed his spindle, and heat pulsed from her crotch through her torso and limbs. There was a throbbing that may have centered on her G Spot. She'd never had multiple orgasms, but had no idea what else these wild, ecstatic jolts could be.

Her spasms were then joined by his flexures within her, launching her higher. But then she was soothed by the warm fluid that surged from him, flowing throughout her most intimate space.

She lost all sense of time, eventually becoming aware that she was dizzy and weak. Awkwardly she hoisted her trunk, popping it free of his wang. As she rolled and slumped to lie beside him, she tried to assess her physical state.

It was like a deep swoon. Her tension had indeed been released, leaving her thoroughly placid. Saliva trickled from her open mouth, while she felt a similar trickle from her labia. In a way she couldn't define, Camille felt...more womanly?...than she ever had before. With a memory of immersion within overwhelming maleness.

She realized, Once we were fucking, he didn't actually do anything. Flat on his back with an immobile erection, didn't even use his hands.

He said, "Woah." It sounded to her like Justin's normal voice. She sat up, and took the risk of looking at his face. She saw a slack jaw and eyes staring at the ceiling.

"Justin," said Camille. Then, after a few moments to gain full control of her breathing, she continued. "What happened just now?"

"You were totally awesome!" he said, with a loopy grin.

Slowly she said, "That's not what I meant," enunciating clearly, hoping to get through to him. "You were different, and not just because you were totally awesome."

His brow knit. Then he said, "Oh, you mean the way I talked?"

"Yes!" And looked, and acted. She skipped that and moved to this. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"It just sorta happens," he said sheepishly. "I didn't even know it at first, but some women asked about it, and later I could hear, a little, that I was doing that."

Camille nodded, willing to believe that Justin didn't consciously flip a switch to get into seduction mode. But that didn't explain enough.

"What makes that happen?" she asked.

"I dunno," he said with a shrug. Then he grinned again. Apparently without guile, he said, "It happens when we're getting close, uh, doing this. Maybe it's because of you ladies! It's so amazing, when I touch you and see your bodies!"

Camille's curiosity was waning, and she was ready to enjoy her afterglow without him. Especially if he had now reverted to his mooncalf self. "Well, I was really impressed, Justin. But I have a busy day tomorrow, and I have to be alone to sleep well." Busy? Yeah. Getting Plan B has been added to my to-do list.

He nodded for a few seconds. Then, as Camille opened her mouth to shoo him out more bluntly, he said, "Right, yeah. I'll go home. So I wasn't toxic?"

She tried to see inside him, and couldn't. Toxic? Only if he's a Casanova of incredible subtlety. And we were already about to fuck, at my instigation. "No, you weren't toxic. See you."

***

Camille was disoriented the next day. She now had a sense of her body and mind working at cross purposes. Her sleep was totally refreshing, and once awake, she felt as though any lingering physical issues, like low-level muscle strains, had vanished. Feeling this good as a result of a shag with Justin, and what may have been his dual personalities, disturbed her.

As with most of her casual acquaintances, Camille knew little of substance about Justin. She had become aware of him about two years earlier, as a sometimes-date of women she knew. Camille enjoyed his pretty-boy looks, but his vapidity in conversation deterred her from giving him mindshare.

Now, however, she had seen that Justin could have an influence over her that she didn't want. She needed to know why.

She'd had good sex before, but it was brought about by partners with whom she had something in common, or potential emotional connections. Those moments had also occurred when she was younger. She now considered herself less easily swayed.

Wrong, she thought with worry.

***

Breanna smiled. "Thanks for asking me. I'm so glad that you're willing to make peace."

Camille worked up what she hoped was a placid expression. "I'm hoping we can agree to disagree. This is a complicated issue, and we shouldn't allow it to be a problem for two people who can be friendly."

"Absolutely," said Breanna, her complexion a peach smoothness that seemed almost sandblasted. "We could have so much to offer each other."

Camille circulated the stirrer in her coffee, destroying the clover-like pattern wrought in the foam by the barista. Briefly, silently, she vented her sincere thought about Breanna: She's an influencer for an enterprise that benefits from a regime that bludgeons protesters. Then Camille made herself move on, for the next few minutes.

"I was out of touch on a few things," said Camille, making eye contact. "I heard something about you having a problem with Justin."

The smooth veneer shifted, to show sadness. "I said what I said, and I'll let it stand," said Breanna, not detailing her toxicity post. "Otherwise, it was a wonderful experience. And I think Justin understood, and learned something. So now maybe he's a better person." Breanna straightened up a bit, as if to acknowledge a parade in her honor.

Camille was grateful that she did not have a medal, because she would have been tempted to pin it through Breanna's brain stem. Returning to the business at hand, Camille said, "Did he seem...to change at all? While you were..."

Breanna now produced a beatific smile. "I found the mystical essence of the man, the old soul buried beneath the clutter that civilization has imposed on him. It was a glorious communion of flesh and spirit. It was sad, even tragic, that my own flesh needed respite. At first he failed to understand this. It was necessary for me to make him understand."

"And you were ticked off at him? Enough to post about it?"

"Passions are what they are," said Breanna, looking down to sip coffee.

"Will you move on from him?"

The expression Breanna showed now, as she met Camille's eyes, was far from beatific. There was a sharpness towards her tablemate, and it had nothing to do with Chinese shoes. "If it's meant to happen again, it will. None of us can control a force of nature. Can we?"

***

Camille had kept afloat for six years on the gig economy. She knew she'd chafe at having a boss, and she had resolved never to enable corporate America directly. That resolve had worn thin lately. Making nice on a variety of individual clients, for her website designs, seemed at times to feel like she had a multitude of bosses.

At 28, she found it steadily more difficult to see herself as a free spirit. Though in good shape overall, she'd lately had enough conditions for her to get a health plan through the exchanges. Combining that with her other personal expenses made her spend time in what she thought of as a bean-counter mentality, which she despised. This is why I drink, she thought harshly, and look for guys I can put between my legs, stringlessly.

On this particular night, Camille had neither imbibed nor sought a hookup, but she didn't feel good about that. Her focus wasn't entirely on her goal. She found herself looking through the crowd at this tavern, even though she truly didn't want to see the guy about whom she might feel strings.

The bartender, who had become a celebrity, chose to be known by only her last name, Szabo. It seemed exotic, to Americans who didn't know any Hungarians.

Szabo flitted like a butterfly from one high-end, too-hip watering hole to another. It was possible to find her through the schedule on Szabo's website (a full hosted site, not just a social media account). Camille decided it would be better to track Szabo down at the tavern that served as her home base, and to do so on what might be a light night. At around nine p.m. on a Tuesday, Camille found her opportunity.

At one end of a normal-looking, polished-wood bar, was a glass-walled platform, almost like a DJ booth. There, a black-clad, green-haired woman wrangled bottles, glasses, shakers, and other mixological paraphernalia. Atop the wall behind her was a display that spelled out SZABO! in ever-changing pixel colors and arrangements. As Camille approached from one side, she was able to see a smaller display at the level of Szabo's head, showing orders to be filled. Even a light night appeared to keep Szabo busy.

Camille leaned around a waiting patron and asked for one of Szabo's earliest creations: "Can I get an Infinite Square Well?"

"In about eight minutes," said the short, slight woman, not looking up. She reached to pull down a nozzle mounted above her head, and spritzed liquid nitrogen into a heavy ceramic cup.

Clearly the bartender wasn't about to submit to interrogation by a stranger, while filling high-priced orders. When her drink was ready, Camille asked Szabo, "When you go on break, can I have a word?"

Szabo's dark, heavy eye makeup seemed to reveal nothing, but after a moment the bartender said, "Sure."

In due course, a tight-lipped bouncer in mirrorshades escorted Camille into the side lounge that served as Szabo's break area.

"Do we know each other?" asked Szabo, seated in a recliner.

"No," said Camille, pulling up an armless chair. She showed a picture of Justin. "Do you know this guy?"

"You a cop?"

"Also no. Let's just say that I had an unusual experience with him after we were both drinking your creations."

Szabo smirked at the pic of Justin. "He's just too damn cute, isn't he? Like he was designed by somebody. Or an A.I."

"So you know him?"

Szabo shook her head. "I've seen him plenty. But lots of the same people show up at my one-offs in other bars. He's just more noticeable."

"Is there one special drink that he orders?"

Szabo looked away, and exhaled, maybe wearily. "Look, Honey, you're not going to lay on me whatever happened to you. Nobody's going to prove anything like GHB is in what I make. I don't bother to smack down all the rumors of powdered oysters and monkey glands. People can believe what they want, but I'm not responsible for what they do after they leave."

"I never said anything about what I drank."

"But you were going to." Szabo flicked her eyes to her left, and the bouncer approached.

"No, this is about him, not me--"

The bouncer rumbled, "Szabo needs her rest now."

As Camille drove home, she thought, Maybe it's about me too. The tango--that cruel, ruthless dance--takes two.

***

Camille spent almost an hour on a Wednesday night dithering and self-questioning. Finally, she just grabbed the phone and called.

Conor picked up, and sounded upbeat. "Hi Camille."

"Con, this is a booty call," said Camille, sounding as frazzled as she felt. "Can you deal with that?"

"Uh...well, sure. Is this for, um, right now?"

"Yeah and, look, this isn't romantic or passionate, or even fun. You remember the whole no-bed thing?"

"Ah, so I'm a guinea pig?"

"Yep. Deal-breaker?"

In a mock-analytical tone, he said, "Hmmm, sex with a woman, offered freely, with no requirements on my part except to deliver myself to said woman...versus a night at home with no sex. I'll be there in fifteen."

Which he was.

"None of my business, I guess," said Conor as he stretched out on the comforter, "But can you tell me the purpose of the experiment?"