Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Free Erotica: Right Message, Wrong Man

I always liked mistaken identity stories, and a few years back, for a story I wrote called "Right Message, Wrong Man," I got the idea to play with an intense one. Here's the setup:

I’m in the neighborhood, I texted Jason. Can I come over? I want to get that big cock down my throat.

He wasn’t my boyfriend, by his choice, not mine. He was willing to hook up when I was horny, so long as he didn’t have anyone else over, and about three times a year, I’d get lonely enough to take that raw deal.

Tonight I just needed someone’s body touching mine. Work had been hell. My boss, Jaron, had ridden me like a show pony all damn day. If it took more than five minutes for me to answer an e-mail, he accused me of reading Internet gossip sites instead of doing my work. At the daily meeting, he threw me under the bus for a project I hadn’t been able to finish because of documents I needed from him. Asshole.

By the time 7 p.m. rolled around and it felt safe to leave—as in, enough other people had left that I wouldn’t be branded a slacker for going home—my shoulders had attached themselves to my ears, my stomach churned, and I desperately needed relief. I couldn’t afford massages or acupuncture. So I went home, threw on a short black skirt and pulled the bra out from under my red camisole, and texted Jason.

My nerves had me so edgy, I couldn’t sit still, so I worked the phone with one hand while balancing on one foot in the foyer, strapping on my sandals with the other hand. I started walking toward Jason’s neighborhood, figuring I ought to support my “in the neighborhood” lie. My dignity hung on how casually I could play this.

I kept having to consciously slow down my pace, because I didn’t want to get to Jason’s place looking sweaty and desperate. The phone buzzed in my purse with a return text, and I sighed loudly enough that a couple walking past turned and rolled their eyes at me. Fishing the phone out, I leaned against the window of a Chinese restaurant and squinted at the tiny screen (yeah, I was rocking a flip phone). Would Jason condescend to fuck me, or did he have a better offer?

This is… unexpected, the reply text said. Too soon for my place. If you want to meet at Crema, we can see what we can negotiate for my cock and your mouth in the alley out back.

I had to read it a few times. Crema? That wasn’t Jason’s neighborhood. That was some fancy neighborhood overlooking the river. And I’d never known Jason to use complete sentences.

Can you be there in 45 minutes? Another message popped up. This time, I watched it come through, complete with a picture of the sender. A military-style buzz cut framing a chiseled face and hard black eyes. A scar notched on the side of his jaw, making him look rough despite the suit he wore. My boss, Jaron. Not my fuck buddy, Jason. I fought down the urge to hyperventilate. Until that moment, I thought the expression, “So embarrassed that she wanted to die,” was an exaggeration.

If you want to see where this goes, my publisher, Forbidden Fiction, is serializing it on their website, so you can read it for free. The first chapter's up now, and the next two will go up on the next two Saturdays. If you've got questions or comments about the story, you can leave them there—I'll be keeping an eye on that, and will be sure to answer anything you bring up.

I hope you enjoy! Please check it out here.

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