The Guide

Note to Readers: This is my Summer Lovin 2021 entry - please have fun and don't forget to vote!

The Guide

"Hey, hey, hey guys! It's Braaay-den! (insert hee haw sound) I know you're all as sick of this COVID shit as I am, so I thought what better to do than take a challenge from one of my viewers? (hold up phone and read) 'Hey Bray, for your next stunt, I wanna see you take Katie, that sweet honey of yours, and see if you can make her ass go "HEE HAW" somewhere up in buttfuck country!' from 'PinHerDown85.' Well, you all know how much I love a good challenge, and who could say no to this ass? (have Katie bend over for camera and spank) Well, PinHerDown85, it just so happens that my little Katie has been dying to go back home and show me the beauty of nature, and it just so happens to be our first anniversary, too! So, next time, I'd like you all to join me for a big surprise on a Very Braden Special coming to you from the Rose Lake Cliffs. You don't wanna miss it. Like and Subscribe before the event, and I will personally send every one of you a gif of the moment she gets the surprise of her life! Don't miss it, guys! Until then, this is Braaay-den (insert hee haw sound) riding bareback into the great beyond."

I waited anxiously for Braden to finish reading through the copy I had written for his latest vlog, thinking back to the day I arrived at his mansion. I had failed miserably at my dream of becoming a screenwriter in LA, but still couldn't bear the thought of crawling back home without anything to show for it. I was homeless in LA (yet again) and at the point where even bankruptcy seemed like an unachievable financial goal, when I got called to interview for a job as a writer/assistant for a social media influencer. Braden Jennings, dazzling idol of trust fund perfection, lived in a mansion next to his parents' more modest sprawling estate in a gated community called Hidden Hills.

I'd never actually been to a gated community before. I'd heard of them, of course, but I guess I was surprised to actually see a gate and a fence around a place where people live. I told the guard at the gate who I had come to see, but he didn't have me on his list. Then, I called Braden to let him know that I was having trouble getting to the interview, but he didn't pick up.

After a while, I began to panic and the guard looked over at me and asked me what it was worth to me to get through the gate. Call me an idiot, but where I come from, you don't show up late for a job interview. I told him that I needed this job more than anything and if he could help me, it would literally save my life. So, the guard let me into his booth, and about 7 minutes later, I parked, wiped the tears, cum and mucus off my face, fixed my makeup, and walked up to the Braden Jennings mansion. When the door opened, the "guard" I had just blown was there filming my reaction.

Then, while giggling uncontrollably, Braden Jennings introduced me to the guard, a.k.a. his buddy Holt, and his videographer Cale. Then, he told me to write copy for an episode where a dumb blonde blows a gate guard to get to her job interview on time and then finds out it was just a prank. Being without other more appealing job prospects, like "live organ donor," I wrote the copy. Then, Braden said they'd call me if they were interested and told me to make sure to "like and subscribe!"

Much to my surprise, a few days later, Braden actually did call me. If I'd bothered to look at the vlog he posted, I wouldn't have been so surprised. The piece I wrote and guest-starred in drove his viewership through the roof. After that, Braden decided that he needed me and his lawyer sent me a contract that basically committed me to him in whatever capacity Braden wanted or needed for one year along with a non-disclosure agreement. As the year progressed, I discovered that "whatever capacity" included some things that ended up ruining my life. What can I say? Sometimes, the best you can do is survive.

"Why the fuck is your name in here?" Braden snapped, scrolling down the copy I'd written, "You trying to pinch my viewers? Get a fucking spin-off?"

I chewed on my lips and looked at the pool... the outdoor pool. There's a pool in the atrium inside, but I was looking at the outdoor pool because it was further away from the spray-tanned, razor-cut, inflatable-pecs, winged-eyeliner, lavender-highlighted freak that the internet thought was my object of worship. The world of influencer-worshipping porn-addicts had eaten up the story of a dewy-eyed girl from the sticks being gratefully rescued from desperation by the rich naughty prankster.

"Get this in your head, Butterface. You are a thing! Your name is whatever position the viewers want me to fuck your ass in, got it? Clean it up. And you ever use this font again, and I will personally—"

"BRAY!" Holt yelled from the edit room, depriving me of the chance to hear what Braden would personally do to me if I used the "Chiller" font instead of "Calibri" again. Braden never did anything to anyone personally, usually having Holt do it for him, but he really got worked up about fonts, for some reason. The rule was: I was to use "Calibri" for the intro and close, but "Comic Sans" for the sex-talk. So, now you know what I'm dealing with. Would you believe that I used to write stories in "Garamond?" That was back when I still believed in Weinstein movies and true love.

"Dude, the money shot's all fucked up again. We need her back in the trunk!" Holt yelled.

Of course, the money shot was fucked up. The money shots always got fucked up somehow because it meant that Holt got to film my reaction to having my asshole mistaken for a rear-facing gas tank again, pretending to feel sympathy for me the whole time. Oh, I wasn't fooled, though. The only thing Holt felt while I was suffering was a need to rub his junk under the desk. Holt was a sadist, and not the fun kind.

Problem was, Holt didn't want to just come out and say that he got off on hurting and humiliating me. He seemed to think that would make people think he was a bad person. No, instead he preferred to come up with scenarios wherein I would be humiliated and experience a wide range of pain and degradation before he (strategically standing in for Braden's steroid-withered cock) would brutally fuck and cum on my ass. Then, I would write copy for Braden to rattle off around the carefully cropped and edited clips that would just barely get past the censors. Usually, it was a script that made Braden sound like he owned the universe, and that I was just an awe-struck girl that was so ever grateful even to be noticed by him.

Don't worry, I'll be killing myself soon.

Braden and Holt have been planning out the big trip to Rose Lake Cliffs for a while, keeping the plans secret from me because they want my reactions to be "fresh." The last time they wanted a "fresh" reaction, I got a donkey punch from Holt and woke up in the hospital. So, you know, death really isn't seeming so bad anymore. They probably thought up something horrific to have me submit to at the top of the cliff. I'm terrified of heights, so it wouldn't have to be much to turn me into a mess. Maybe, if it's bad enough, I'll just close my eyes and jump... it only hurts when you stop falling, right?

Unfortunately, when Holt and Braden make travel plans, they don't pay attention to details at all and I usually need to figure things out on the fly. First missed detail: nobody had clothes that made sense outside of LA, and we were going to a part of Minnesota that was practically Canada. You might not think something like that matters in August, but it does. So, while the guys made jackasses of themselves in the duty-free shops of the Minneapolis airport, I bought them some less stupid clothes.

Next, we took a flight on a smaller plane up to Duluth, which apparently is a real place. I had actually lied about being from Minnesota to Braden, because I knew he would eventually bring me to whatever place he thought I was from so that the humiliation of doing stuff to me there would be that much more personal, and the reaction "fresh." Now, I had to pretend I knew about Minnesota. So, Duluth -- it's a place. Who knew?

I followed Braden and the guys up to a man who was talking with an older couple at a Gunflint Skyways counter in the Duluth Airport, "Hey dude, I chartered a flight up to Lake Rose, you our ride?" Braden asked after knocking on the counter to get his attention.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he said, looking over the group and settling his eyes briefly on me. My eyes flickered down to the floor out of habit. After all that was out on the internet about me, I didn't like people looking at me anymore. Despite the never-ending chatter of Braden and his sycophants, I didn't like leaving the mansion, even. I never knew if a stranger's lingering look meant they had recognized me... and if someone recognized me, they were probably someone I didn't want to know better. Eyes felt like judgmental microscopes to me, now.

"WHOA!! Get a load of the guy's accent, dude! Pure Fargo! Man, the Cohen brothers weren't kidding! Cale, get recording!" Braden said, launching into a description of the Duluth Airport in an exaggerated northern Minnesota accent.

With an effort, I lifted my eyes from the floor, meeting the eyes of the man behind the counter who watched what was going on and displayed no emotion whatsoever. It's like he was made of stone. After killing all my emotions for nearly a year, I had to admire that. It wasn't easy. There's stoic and then there's stonic. This guy was stonic. I hoped that I could convey enough of an apology to him for the existence of my companions with only my eyes, but there's only so much you can do without going full Oedipus and just gouging them out in shame.

The older couple thanked the man and moved on, embarrassed by the scene Braden and the others were making, and the guy turned back to us. "Welcome to Gunflint Skyways, I'm Captain Craig Anderson, I'll be your pilot up to Rose Lake. Is everyone here?" he asked, looking the group over again.

"Oh, dude! Dude! Tell me you got that!" Braden chortled to Holt, ignoring the pilot and explaining to his viewers what he had, as if the pilot's accent made him unintelligible. The Captian's face turned to stone again as he waited.

I pushed forward to talk to him. Over the past year, I had learned to endure some pretty humiliating things, but I still couldn't bear to watch the idiots treat other people the way they did. Sometimes, I wonder if they did it on purpose because they knew it was one of the few nerves I had left.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I'm Katie Lund. Yes... yes, this group is going up to Rose Lake. I'm so sorry. I don't know the plans they made, but I assume there's a lodge or something... we were going up to the cliffs? I'm so sorry I don't know more, but I can try to—" I fumbled, turning bright red as the Captain's eyes looked from my face, to my tense shoulders, twisting legs, and eventually to my hands that were unconsciously clenched into tight fists at my stomach.

"You just apologized three times..." he said, still looking at me, the only movement or expression in his face being a slight frown of confusion.

"It... it won't be enough, sir. I'm so, so sorry," I said under my breath. The Captain's mouth quirked almost imperceptibly, and for some reason I felt proud that I got that out of him. "Katie Lund, here you are. You're going up to Rose Lake Lodge for two nights. Booked the whole place... guess you like your privacy. You've chartered a boat tomorrow, a hiking guide the next morning, and then another flight back here."

"How... how do you know that, Captain?" I asked.

"It's my lodge, my boat, and I will be your guide," he replied, looking down at his computer with a slight smile. "We tend to multi-task up here," he explained. "Call me Craig. And don't worry... I'll take care of you."

"Oh... um... thank you, Craig," I said, both horrified and reassured at the same time.

"You're welcome, Katie," he said, looking up into my eyes again, causing something to flip in my stomach. As he came around the counter and began picking up the guys' bags and carrying them out to a small propeller plane with floaties on it, I realized that I had every confidence that Craig Anderson would take care of me... and that I would want to die the moment he ever discovered what I did for a living.

I rounded up the idiots in that bashful, hesitant tone that my contract required me to use in public or on camera. Braden's viewers wouldn't like it if I was ever seen out of character. When I got them out to the plane, that's when the second detail they missed presented itself.

"Well, it looks like we'll need two trips," Craig said, assessing the load.

"The fuck you say? Google says this kind of plane seats four! We're a group of four!" Braden bulled up full of internet knowledge, his muscle implants bulging in the undersized Golden Gophers sweatshirt I bought him that clashed with his lavender highlights.

I stepped forward to smooth things over again, but Braden shouldered me aside hard enough to make me lose my balance. I fell backward over my carry-on and landed on my butt on the tarmac, my teeth clacking together painfully. Cale and Holt cracked up, recording their view of me rubbing my ass as I got up.

This time, I couldn't even raise my eyes to apologize to Craig. After all this time with the guys, it shouldn't have bothered me, but it hurt to have Craig see how I allowed the guys to treat me, knowing he couldn't possibly understand the reason why I allowed it. Craig had seen them treat me like a worthless thing and they had the money. I didn't even qualify for a credit card. Soon enough, Craig would take their cue and treat me the same as the guys did. I'd seen it time and again in LA.

"I'll stay," I said quietly, brushing off my jeans. "Someone needs to fly the plane, right?" I asked. Braden started scoffing about locals taking advantage of tourists, so I deflected his attention to me before Craig heard too much of it. "Um, Bray, I spent all my cash on clothes for you and the guys and I'm going to need to eat here at the airport. Could you p-please—" I stammered.

Braden's eyes sharpened as he made a gesture for Cale and Holt to get recording again. "Ohhh, Baby wants some of Daddy's money again? Well, I think Daddy might have something for you down in his pocket—"

"Oh, right, I forgot. Excuse me," Craig said, angling around Braden as if he didn't even exist and ruining the shot, "Here are some food vouchers for you, and a pass to the pilot's lounge in case you'd like to take a nap, Katie," he said, handing me the folded vouchers, edges curled and still warm from being in his back pocket.

"Thank you," I whispered, filling with warmth, and yet dreading the punishment that I knew the all-too-easily emasculated Braden would inflict on both of us for the kindness Craig had just shown me.

"Not to worry, Katie, I shouldn't be more than a few hours. You'll barely have time to miss me," Craig said with a wink, as I saw Braden swell with silent anger behind him. I nodded and quickly looked down, quietly wondering what kind of death wish Craig had... and also hiding my smile before I could get my mouth under control again.

I watched them climb into the plane and waved as they taxied into position. Craig, now wearing reflective aviator sunglasses, was the only one who waved back. The others didn't even notice. It looked like Braden was, yet again, giving his viewers the treat of seeing him talk about something. After they'd gone, I felt almost drunk with the thought of spending several hours without hearing Braden talk. With the first sense of relief I'd felt in a long time, I walked back inside the airport, found the pilot's lounge, curled up in a recliner, and fell sleep.

"Katie... Katie Lund... time to wake up, sweetheart..." a voice called me out of my deep sleep. I didn't want to go. I felt so warm and safe, rested even. Then, my mind digested that someone was saying my actual name instead of calling me something disgusting and I jerked awake. I was huddled in the fetal position in a recliner, my hands clenched into fists over my gut again. Disoriented, I looked at the sideways face of the man crouched down next to the chair, "Craig Anderson... Duluth Airport," he said, reminding me when I frowned at him.

"No, I... I remember you. I just kinda konked out," I yawned, looking around the lounge. "You're back already?" I asked.

"Back, at last, actually," he said, "The trip took a little longer than I thought. Have you eaten?" he asked, taking my hands to help me out of the chair.

"Um... no, I... I guess I just slept," I said, yawning.

When I opened my eyes from the yawn, Craig had put his stone face on, looking at the palms of my hands that he kept holding after helping me up. My fingernails had dug deep red crescents into the flesh from being clenched into fists for hours. Self-conscious, I began to pull them back, but then he ran the ball of his thumb over them, rubbing gently. "I've got a nail clippers on my keyring," he offered, "should clear this up," he said, still brushing my skin with his.

I couldn't seem to do anything but watch him touch my hands, staring at his tanned and roughened skin, bringing comfort to my own. My addled mind couldn't seem to understand what was going on, that someone was purposely touching me so gently, and it took a while for me to answer him. "Um... thanks, that's really nice of you. He needs me to keep them long, though... Braden. Says it looks too gay if my hands aren't girly enough... ruins the close-ups," I said, unthinkingly honest in my sleep haze. I wasn't supposed to talk about what went into creating the look of things.

"Well, that's... different," Craig said, giving my hands a light squeeze. "Let's get some food," he said, picking up my carry-on and leading me out of the pilot's lounge.

He brought me to the airport's restaurant and we sat down together at the bar. "The burgers and fries here are pretty good. The onion rings are battered," Craig said, not looking at the menu, which listed almost nothing my contract allowed me to eat. Still, I hadn't eaten all day and knowing that nobody would be there to film or fat-shame me while I ate made me throw caution to the wind and I ordered everything he mentioned. "You like onion rings?" he asked after giving his order, impressed.

"Um... I don't know. Never had them, but I figured you liked them..." I said, glancing over at him. He had a kind face that was all wrong for the camera, but I liked that about it. It made me trust him.

"Well, you got me on that. You gotta get the battered ones, see, because the others end up mostly being crumbs and oil, no real onion. Plus, then your shirt's covered with stuff when you're done and then your date's looking at her phone..." he said, ruefully.

"You order a lot of onion rings on your dates, then?" I laughed.

"Sure, why not?" he asked, leaning over and brushing me with his shoulder.

"Well... you know, at the end of the date...you'd be all oniony when you bent down to her and..." I said, looking down at my lap, then glancing at him again.

"And...?" he asked, a hint of a smile playing around his lips. I looked at his lips longer than I should have. They were framed by a stubble that sparkled when they caught the dim lights of the bar. Unlike the rest of him, they looked like they were soft.

"Wh-when you kissed her... you guys kiss at the end of a date up here, right?" I said, biting on my lower lip.

"No..." he said, watching me chew my lip, "We tend to kiss all through the date up here, Katie," he said, turning to take a sip of his iced tea, watching my reaction to what he said in the bar's mirror. I couldn't watch much of anything at that moment, being completely distracted by the thought of Craig giving me oniony kisses all through a date.