tagMind ControlMy Only Talent Ch. 33

My Only Talent Ch. 33


Babalú, Lou Baby!

Note: The descriptions and accounts in these stories are fictional and do not portray any actual people or events

After Nora and I got back to Austin from San Antonio, we spent another night completely plugged in to each other, literally and figuratively. We then slept another exact nine hours, and I awoke with both a raging hard on and ravenous hunger. Nora woke at exactly the same time, but with a need to talk before we did anything else. She brushed her platinum tresses away and fixed her shining grey eyes on me.

"Before we go any further, we need to talk about the next few years."


"I have decided to go get my MBA next, so I'll be spending the next two years at Harvard Business School in Cambridge, and then have another 2 or 3 years somewhere else to complete a PhD. So not at Harvard, nor in the Boston area. I need a little more academic diversity on my record."

I was thinking more about the sexual diversity she was going to get for the next few weeks.

"But I wanted us to be clear – my long term plan is to be with you. Before you speak, let me say I understand that you love Lara and Suzanne, too, and I am not expecting that to change. Whatever arrangement we have will not preclude either of them being with you, too. With us, more likely."

Holy shit. I can't think of anything to say to that except "What about the bigamy laws?"

"You should talk to Lara about that. She believes they will soon be passé and intends to take an active role in speeding up that process. Surely you must have wondered why she is going to law school?"

It was enough for me to know she wanted to do it.

"I realize with your alternating school and work plan it may take you 5 years to finish your engineering undergraduate degree, so you probably haven't even thought about grad school yet, but an MBA seems a natural path for you. When you visit me in Boston, we can start networking some of the b-school professors there on your behalf."

Nora doesn't do anything half way, does she? She smiled, in a way I had not seen before – it was both motherly and predatory at the same time. What else was she planning?


Dwight choose his outfit for the product review meeting carefully, to make the right impression on his team mates, and send the right messages to the overly detached and self-absorbed PhD CEO. It had to look slightly nerdy and ambiguously ambisexual, yet connote competence and confidence. Not easy to do. He thought back to his agency training on clothing and disguises, and selected expensive light grey slacks with blue and purple Argyle socks and black wingtips, then added a bright pink cotton dress shirt and a blue and purple paisley tie. No coat, no pocket protector, no jewelry.

He arrived at work early as usual, and checked out the setup for the 9:00 AM meeting. There was only one other person there early – the VP Marketing that he enjoyed sharing Thai food with.

She smiled from across the room. "The CEO is not coming to the meeting this morning, Dwight. He is on a 'conference call with potential investors that he must join from home.' She sighed. "Since most of the VP's only attend so they can suck up to the CEO and/or make another VP look bad, the other programmers and I may be the only ones here."

Dwight sighed, too. He could still bond with the folks from other departments, and identify those with potential for helping his investigation. He would have to include in his report to his real HQ that the company was doomed to failure through mismanagement, even if it was not penetrated and didn't have its technology ripped off.

The rest of the group filed in and went through the agenda. The other programmers seemed to get how Dwight's clever fix solved their performance problem. None of the other VP's would get it anyway. About the time Dwight was finishing his report to the product review meeting, Roger Sherman sat down at a corner table in the back at Bucks of Woodside and waited for Shaniqua to arrive.


Shaniqua made her entrance to the restaurant a little late, as was her habit. She had heard of this place, but had never been here before. She knew that Woodside, California was a small town with some big money - one of the richest zip codes in the USA. On the way in, she spotted a couple of clients, with women that must be their wives, based on the way the guys ducked their heads when they saw Shaniqua. She had sent lots of girls and a few boys to work big time 'ranch parties' out here, but never attended any herself.

She spotted this Roger Sherman asshole at a back corner table, looking like a very forgettable clerk or accountant. She would never even notice him if she hadn't memorized his picture. She was going to tear this little asshole a whole new one.

As she approached the table, Roger Sherman held up his phone. It was one of those big Android jobs with the huge screen. What was on that screen stopped Shaniqua in her tracks. It was an exterior shot of a little unassuming wood frame house in Palo Alto. It looked just like a Google Maps street photo, but the color was even better and the leaves on the trees were moving in the breeze. It was her babysitter's house.

Once he had her attention, Roger swiped right and Shaniqua saw her little angel, crying in her crib. What the hell? The screen then split and she also saw her babysitter, the 60-something ex-hippy Miss Marks, sitting on her couch, watching Maury Povich, eating Cheetos, smoking a joint, taking the occasional pull on a Bud Light, and making absolutely no move to check on Shaniqua's crying adopted daughter.

She looked at Roger, angry eyes blazing. Roger actually managed to look supportive. "She forgot to turn on the baby monitor" he said. "We turned on the video to check, but left the audio off until you could see for yourself."

Shaniqua's face turned to stone. Roger hit a button on his phone and the sound of the baby's cries suddenly erupted from the speaker. Miss Marks jumped, spilling Bud Light all over her front, and went in to check the baby. Roger turned the sound down.

"She told you she was a math teacher and got fired from the school district for possession of marijuana a long time ago, right?"

Shaniqua nodded.

"Actually, she was a basketball couch at a middle school, and she was canned for having an 'inappropriate relationship" with several girls on her team."

Shaniqua suddenly looked a lot like Mike Tyson. "She is fucking dead! Right after I get my little girl out of there!" She stood up to leave.

Roger grabbed her arm. He was surprisingly strong for such a little guy. "Let me help you with that. You will want to get your daughter out of her care without drawing any attention to the situation, lest CPS open up a case on whoever it was that decided to let Miss Marks, an unlicensed and clearly unqualified babysitter, take care of her."

Shaniqua sat down with a sigh.

Roger's phone then showed her images of the birth certificate and adoption papers she had had forged to adopt her little girl, then the unaltered real birth certificate and some affidavits confessing to fraud from the forger, the lawyer, and the judge that signed off on the adoption. They were all escort clients that Shaniqua had pressured into the fraud.

Shaniqua was nobody's fool. She knew, like the song said, you got to serve somebody. In her case, it looked like it was going to be this Roger Sherman guy, and whoever he worked for. "What it is you want me to do, Roger?"

He smiled, and said, "Give me your phone. I have a new one for you to use from now on. We have a bunch of new jewelry for you, with some battery chargers for it, too, and some very nice hotel rooms reserved for you and your escorts to use to entertain clients. We will also get you set up with a wonderful and fully licensed sitter, with much better monitoring equipment."

Shit. They had her roped up seven ways to Sunday. She would have to do a good job for them.


My roommate Kevin's alarm went off before mine did. What's up with that? It was tuned to one of the local news/talk radio stations, replacing his usual favorite 'head banger alternative rock' station. Then I remembered him telling me about his final RTF class project, which could not be started until Spring Break was over, and had to be turned in on the last day of class: tangible proof that he could record, edit, and produce commercial grade audio. Kevin had mentioned his plan for a heavy handed and sexually toned parody (notice a theme here?) of local radio news and sports talk stations, which had to include commercials, news items, interviews, features, bumper music and commentary similar to that on the local outlets.

He had his laptop set up to record them automatically, so he could later slice and dice and produce his own stuff to mix in. He had already pressed me and Suzanne and even Joisey Al into doing some voices for him. He said Suzanne's low and sultry voice would 'electrify' the target demo of 18 to 40-year-old males. More like any male from 13 to 90, in my humble opinion, and some of the females, too. He began talking back to the radio, changing station call signs and frequency assignments, and renaming on the air 'personalities' (and I use the term very advisedly in some cases) and advertisers to fit into his satirical theme. I got up and headed for the bathroom.


Spring break was officially broken. I was walking north along Speedway to my math TA's office hours up in RLM, to see how much trouble I was really in. It was 11:50, and all the 11:00 classes were letting out, sending hordes of students out to press their way back to their residence halls for lunch. About ten thousand of that throng was heading for Jester. At least I was counter-commuting. RLM is 16 stories tall, with its multiple basements and the top floors taken up by labs, offices, workshops, a few classrooms, and at the very top, an optical telescope and some radio antennas. The middle floors are packed with classrooms, and served with escalators, because the regular elevators won't even stop on those floors. Between 11:50 and 12:00, the narrow hallways look like a crowded subway station or airport, absolutely packed with people having to bob and weave around each other to either get out of their last class and/or get to their next one.

It was like some combination of speed dating and people watching at a county fair – passing very closely by hundreds of people – and getting only a quick 2 second impression before they moved on. I couldn't help but try to place them on that semi-humorous Dilbert 2 by 2 grid: cute or ugly, smart or dumb. I assumed most of them weren't dumb. Even though ESU was a state school, only the top 8% or so of the in-state high school graduates got automatic admission. But on the cute versus ugly axis, they were all over the map. Huge ass with no teats, huge teats with no ass, perfect hair and terrible everything else, a great looking face with a terrible complexion, hot clothes with terrible grooming, et cetera, et cetera.

I spotted Free Annie from my dorm, so named because she claimed to wear only tee shirts, having 50 of them, all obtained for free. But apparently only one pair of jeans – some vintage Levi's that she wore every day and was inordinately proud of. Some of the shirts were obscene and not wearable on campus – they were considered micro-aggressions all by themselves. Most of the others promoted concert tours, cities, restaurants, grooming products, or music festivals. If she were male, she would probably have an impressive collection of 'gimmie caps' from car and car stereo makers, like Oiler did. She spent almost as much time in the floor lounge as Joisey Al did.

The TA laid out my strengths (topics from first semester) and weaknesses (everything since then and on the upcoming exam and final) and give me some links for some practice tests from other schools. So it was that I was back to classes, exams, and the harsh reality that my second semester of school was winding up, and not all was well. I was in actually trouble in two classes: M408D and Linguistics. I was in trouble in one relationship: Suzanne Pliskin.

In fact, I was in danger of making a D in math and a C in linguistics. In the first semester of math I started off slow, but thanks to Oiler I made it through the first two exams on limits and differential calculus. Then thanks to Esmerelda Estigoy's incredible and very memorable sexually charged teaching techniques, I made it through the third exam on integral calculus and got a high B. But now I was hitting the wall on multi-variable work. I would need both Oiler and Esmerelda, plus some other help, and I had to have a grade of at least C to move on to the next class in the sequence.

While I was wallowing in my troubles, Russel 'Husky' Varna called about his.

"Robbie, I need help."

"We all know that, Russel, but none of us are qualified as psychotherapists."

"Thanks a lot. I meant with calculus. If you can get me through Math 408C I can get you a copy of the last three years of finals in Linguistics, which I think you need."

That was certainly an equitable trade. "Okay, we need to visit the UDP house for some supplemental instruction. Can you come to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yep. Spring practice is nearly over, and I am getting the third degree from my assigned tutor and from Coach. He somehow knows my grades on everything! I think he has my Quest login. You wouldn't believe the shit he gives me!"

Husky adopted a new voice, sounding hoarse and like he was holding his neck at a funny angle, imitating the new football coach. "What's the deal, Professor Varna? I got crazy defensive tackles that are passing calculus, and then I look at you, Mr. Big SAT Score Future Professor Linebacker and see are flunking it? I can't play you if you flunk out! Maybe you don't really want to play? I said we were getting 'errybody' but I didn't say we would take anybody! You got to pass your classes! Maybe you should have gone to Stanford."

A quick text to Oiler got things in motion, and he texted back a little later that Esmerelda could be there too.


I almost dreaded going to Linguistics, as I felt sure to again be reminded of my lack of full understanding for the upcoming final midterm and the comprehensive final. One pleasant sight awaited me, though, as Lynn Da Britain danced in humming and smiling like crazy. The sun poured in through the windows and skylights, and lit her up like a spotlight on Broadway. She in turn, seemed to light up the room. She was wearing one of her signature warm weather outfits: a bare midriff with a little white halter tee shirt and pink short shorts. Her short brown hair smelled of fresh shampoo, and her perfect white skin was shining like a marble statue in the natural light, and she looked incredible. Half the class turned and watched her slide smoothly and hotly into the seat next to me.

I recalled a recent goofy discussion at the UDP house about tattoos and social class, changing mores, and the inevitable sexual theory that girls with tattoos are more promiscuous and sexually skilled than those without. Perhaps it was time for a little direct sociological research.

"So, Lynn Da," I began. "Do you have any tattoos?"

She smiled seductively and leaned toward me. I wondered if she was about to share a daring and exciting secret. Then she stood tall and spread her arms out wide, pushing her breasts against the white tee shirt, perky nipples showing through and dramatically highlighting her almost perfect figure. She caught me looking. It wasn't hard – my eyes were glued to her.

"Robbie," she spoke loud enough for half the class to hear. "Tattooing this body would be like drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa!"

She certainly didn't lack for self-confidence, and I realized that she was absolutely correct, too I resolved to redouble my efforts to throw her a little private bachelorette party with Husky and I giving her a real send off to marriage with her best boy and soon to be School Principal Bob. But how to raise the subject with her?

But I didn't have to – she did! As Suzanne has taught me, sometimes the best way to spur a conversation with a woman is to just listen patiently.

"I guess I should be flattered by the attention, Robbie, but it's a little creepy to ogle me in class, don't you think?"

Wait for it. "Perhaps in private, then?"

She laughed. The professor began to go over the review material for the final midterm. I really should listen, but I could not stop thinking about Lynn Da. She giggled softly, then leaned over and began whispering conspiratorially in my ear. Her hot breath blew directly from my earlobe to my dick, beginning to inflate it.

"Maybe if we had met each other earlier, Robbie. But now I have to focus on Bob and our careers. You can't get to be Superintendent of Schools in a big city without being solidly married and very well behaved. As a couple Bob and I must be attractive and outgoing, yes. But libertine swingers, no. My wild oats have all been sown."

Three, two, one: "Are there any things you wished you had done, but haven't?"

Her eyes took on a faraway look, and then she displayed a tight little smile. It almost reminded me of Lara's special smile. Then she sighed. "Well, I have always been a fan of Dr. Doolittle, and I have seen the original movie, and in fact several other kinds of movies about the same subject, so to speak, but I have never acted it out." She looked at me expectantly, and blushed. With her perfect skin it affected me the way a waving red flag triggers a bull.

This topic also had of course been the subject of more than one sophomoric discussion at the UDP house. The "push me, pull you" animal character from the children's story was often used as a sexual double entendre for a girl (or perhaps these days, a guy) taking on two guys at once, along with the extension of three guys at once (which as I currently understood human anatomy only females could manage) metaphorically stated as "jam up and jelly tight", "airtight", and (gulp) Suzanne's recent and very personal and forward looking contribution to the vernacular: "The Full Magilla". Oiler, surprisingly, had taught us the term "airtight ski jump" that totaled five guys as the female took a penis in each hand in addition to the three primary orifices. I guess a gay guy could only manage four, then. Is that discriminatory?

Cisco, in line with his philosophy about 'open' relationships, said that Mei Ling has revealed some similar fantasies to him and that his automatic reaction to her talking about them was to get really turned on. I knew she had some submission fantasies from the look on her face and her Suzie signal when I took Millie away on a leash from the sorority house for her initial slut training. Funny how a martial arts master like Mei Ling wanted to be tied up and dominated, not to mention taking on several men at once.

But right now I needed to turn my attention back to Lynn Da. I looked her in the eyes. "Never got the chance, eh?"

Sigh. "Not in a situation that did not involve taking unreasonable risks." Again with the faraway look.

"Risks like disease, gossip, online videos, things like that?"

"Yep." She crossed her arms across her chest. "I guess a girl just can't expect to have it all, even just once." She signed again.

OK, Robbie, this is it. I began my pitch: "What if you could greatly reduce and/or eliminate the risks?"


I was planning to spend most of my school time after spring break trying to catch up in linguistics and hoping for a conceptual breakthrough in math. I walked over to the UDP house to meet Oiler, Esmerelda Estigoy, and Russel "Husky" Varna to try to advance both causes.

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