Joy Repair by Angie M. Brashears
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Angie M. Brashears aka Polkadotauthor
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected].
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Editing and Formatting by Amy Briggs
Photograph by Dan Grytsku/Shutterstock
Cover Design by Shepard Original’s
First Reader: Morgen Frances
All Rights Reserved
Created with Vellum
Contents
About this Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The End
About this Book
If you know me, you know I have more than my fair share of blonde moments.
The title of this series is one of them.
Beyond stressed at work in the E.R., nothing was holding my attention. I couldn’t read. Forget about writing. My days consisted of sleeping, crying, and going back for more—no stress relief in sight for this essential worker. If you didn’t already know, I’m a nurse.
Until something on the news caught my attention. A very popular distribution site was in the middle of an uprising. Instigated by a few male employees who threatened a walkout if they had to ship one more nonessential… vibrator.
Seriously?
Clearly, my idea of essential is vastly different.
I bet if it were a twelve pack of beer in question, their asses would have been grabbing the shipping tape.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman who placed that order. Orgasm Shamed on the national news, what's this world coming too?
During the flurry of passing days in lockdown, one thought nagged me. Tell me that poor lady got her happy ending at least.
I didn’t know her. Never would. But in my mind, her name was Sally, and her vibrator struggle became my own.
In her honor, hot sexy fantasies began to play out in my head. These distractions became just the time out I needed. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I started trying to find the humor in things instead of the doom and gloom.
For the good of Sally and others just like her, I knew I had to write it all down because it reminded me. Laughter really is the best medicine.
And hot sex doesn’t hurt.
And the series title? After all that, do you still care why it is spelled wrong? If you're losing sleep over it, stimulate the economy and order a vibrator.
I own the misspelling. I had a blonde moment.
In the spirit of Forrest Gump, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
Enjoy your Quarentimeout. Orgasms welcomed here.
Excuse me. There’s a sexy Joy Repairman at my door.
Smooches,
Angie
P.S. As always this book is dedicated to my better half, Jimmy.
You keep doing me. I’ll keep doing you. Xoxo.
1
Staying safe while single is nearly impossible.
Night-time is the worst. Constantly on edge, my fingers keep cramping up from clutching the sheets under my chin. Like that's going to save me. It’s about as flimsy a defense as the mountain of cushions that share my bed. Take it from me. A pillow fort is no substitute for a warm body.
What I wouldn't give for some company. Maybe a light sleeper with the ability to snap awake after one anxious tap to his burly shoulder. Sure, there might be a whispered argument over whose turn it is to go check out the noise, a whole lot of grumbling, and scattered dirty looks.
A small price to pay.
Anything is better than trying to do this on my own. Anything is better than this empty bed. Damn you, Brenden.
No! Don’t you dare cry for me Argentina. I’m going to be fine as long as I've got…
Wait.
There it is again!
Outside the window, a branch snaps along with my very last nerve. Jaysus, that’s close.
That did come from outside, didn’t it?
My ears perked, but it’s hard to tell. That almost sounded like the front door sneaking open.
Squeezing my eyes closed is no defense against the unsettling thoughts percolating in my mind—hulking shadows slinking down the hall, the sound of muffled footsteps drawing closer.
Hold the phone, is that heavy breathing? Dare I hope my imagined burglar is thoughtful enough to wear an N-95?
To break the spell, I mutter aloud, "Unless you want another sleepless night spent checking windows and doors, slow it down with the imagination, Sally."
No, thank you. Besides, I just got comfortable.
Now it's time to unwind.
Snuggling under the cotton sheets, I feel around for my sleep-aid. After a heart-stopping minute, my groping turns frantic. Oh no.
Forget about socially conscious prowlers. We've got more pressing matters at hand. "Where the hell is it?"
It has to be here. I use it every night.
The search expands to the neatly made side of my bed. There goes the Tetris fort, toppling over the edge. Just like my sanity if I can’t find it.
Slow down the imagination is right. One little bough breaks in the yard. Not only do I lose my shit, but my vibrator too?
Under the very last throw pillow, tada. Thank you, Lucky Charms and Stars, there you are.
Designed by a team of Sutra scientists somewhere, the velvety soft exterior of my Joy-1000 rivals the sensuous caress of a lover. Top of the line, its tiny computer has more gigs than the one for the house. It boasts so many bells and whistles, I don’t see how a woman is ever expected to make it through one thousand settings. Especially since I’m still infatuated with number one.
My nervous giggle dries up. That was close. Must’ve tucked it away for safekeeping, but the handle feels super warm. Would I do something as stupid as to fall asleep and leave it running?
All those perks use up a lot of juice. It takes a whole hour to charge. By that time, I'll be wide awake.
Chasing much-needed sleep, I clutch the toy like an idol. Please don’t be dead.
Tempering my breathing, I try to remember. My vibrator is the only one working in this house.
"Just one quickie tonight, and it's a full charge for you in the morning," I solemnly swear.
After the most prolonged pause, the reliable hum of Joy blocks out the eerie noises of the night.
Best nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars I've ever spent. During the toilet paper dash, I made sure to invest my stimulus check on something more substantial. If I could’ve found a way to receive a trustworthy man in the mail, that shit would’ve already happened. Anyway, it worked out in the end. Much more cost-effective to imagine one.
With the Joy-1000 tucked between my thighs, there’s no limit to the reassuring fantasies my mind can conjure.
Picturing another so near, my body starts to sweat. Breath halted so as not to miss the whispered indent of the mattress.
Dare I peek?
The scary shadows converge, and an outline takes form.
Designer stubble on a set jaw begs for my soft
touch. Burden lifting shoulders. Contoured tattooed torso sans beer belly. That means he's lanky. Why not?
Tall, Dark, and Nameless takes up most of my tiny little bed. Stretched out like a baller, enormous size fourteens hang off the edge. A night’s worth of man to take in, but I’m caught by his ravenous eyes.
Devouring my body, chomping at the bit. He’s hungry, all right. For me.
My eager stranger could be anyone, but that blatant, “you caught me” grin is unmistakable. Recently freed from braces, that mouth belongs to someone I know.
“Want me to double bag for you?”
My body races with delicious tingles. Why, yes, I do.
Hello, college boy stalker working the end of the checkout line.
Tall, dark, and proud, I’ve never seen him without that tight U.S.C. jersey under his apron.
Caught up in the web of hoping my card goes through, I’d barely looked up when he asked if I like basketball.
Manhandling my cantaloupe, he plowed headlong into an extremely detailed game schedule. Each home game emphasized by a wiggling of his brow. Squeezing on my Charmin, licking those lips.
Sure I was distracted, but blind too? Hells bells, did I miss an invitation to come?
It’s more than possible. Whether stocking shelves or mopping floors, he always stops what he’s doing to eye-trace my tits like there’s a pop-quiz later.
Never once called him out on it either. Figured grocery shopping without a bra was the least I could do to keep up the poor essential kid’s morale.
Naughty boy, I’m on to you. They run out of college girl pussy?
No wonder he always shadows me to the car. Under the guise of gathering shopping carts. Pausing to flex those lean muscles, posing even? Carts rolling every which way, the only work he was doing was cataloging my jiggling ass for his spank bank later.
Hanging back until I put the last heavy bag in the trunk before offering himself up on a platter. “Anything else I can assist you with, ma’am?” Voice dripping with innuendo, of course!
This whole time I was thinking he was shiftless, now I know what it was. A fucking wasted opportunity to take a ride on the collegiate train.
All-a-fucking-board!
Instead of flipping him off and speeding off as per ush…
This time...
I turn and eye-trace him back. “Now that you mention it, I could use a little help with a maddening itch that’s about eight to ten inches out of my reach.”
After a cute toss of my messy bun, my voluptuous ass manages to look graceful when I jump up on the trunk. In case he doesn’t get it, I slide open my legs.
It’s like ringing a bell.
Carts forgotten, he advances. His boner tented and only the green apron’s in the way. Tossing it over one shoulder, he steps onto my bumper and manuvers into place. Hardbody plastered to mine, the friction of his dry hump feels delicious.
Smelling of juicy fruit and celery, he begs, “Miss Gates, let me put it in you.”
My ragged breathing accelerates. Now I’m thrusting back. "Feel me up first,” I demand.
An inexperienced hand fumbles beneath my shirt. Grabbing everything at once.
“Careful, that tickles.”
Way too slow, he teases the edge of my ribcage before inching higher. After what seems like an eternity, I feel a light touch on the curve of my breast. The softest scrape of his nail on my nipple. One hesitant pinch.
“Harder,” I encourage.
Under my breathy tutelage, his clunky touch becomes that of an expert. As if he knows just what I need, applying just the right amount of pressure to each rhythmic squeeze.
Over here on Feel Me Up Island, I’m surrounded by shoppers drifting towards their cars. Minds on their own groceries, that couldn’t care less that I’m about to get some in The Whole Foods parking lot.
“Put it in me now,” I command.
Starry eyes filled with gratitude, he licks his lips. I know he’s coming in for a kiss. But even in my dreams, I deflect. I don’t know where that mouth has been.
Yanking my shirt up high, I Vanna White my boobs to him. “Kiss me here. Go on, bagboy, You’ve earned a taste.”
The touch of fingers drag across my lips. Delicately probing to the corner of my mouth, I open wide for them. Delving inside, my tongue tangles them wet.
A groan escapes when the moisture is slicked against my tit. Moaning, the tantalizing wetness makes me forget where I am. Who I am.
“That’s it. Suck the pink off.”
The gruffness in my own voice jars me back to reality. Eyes wide, it’s like a bucket of ice water to my system.
That’s the kind of stupid shit my ex would say. Fucking Brenden. Sure he’s kissing the pink off someone else by now. Probably cocooned in the touchy-feely phase of a whole new relationship. Staying safe, that man sure likes his quarantine. Only not with me.
Good grief. In what world is it fair that a guy like that gets a happy ending, and here I am stuck doing it on my own.
This rant may take a minute, I hit pause to conserve the battery.
What a fucking phony!
The guy never wears anything but wife-beaters. Fake gold chains around his neck, flexing his abs to accentuate every stupid point he makes. Baggy ass pants hanging around his narrow hips. No one even wears Calvin Klein’s anymore, Brenden!
I don’t know what you expected. You let him pick you up outside a thrift store.
I was redecorating! Asshole even five-fingered my brand new matching IKEA hampers on the way out.
Shaking now, I’ve got to wonder why it I am letting that bag of…cunts rob me of anything else.
Brenden you fucking poser. Get out of my fantasy!
Slowing my breathing, my mind reaches for my double-bagger. The most I can muster is a shot of his tight ass hustling towards the automatic doors. Reading the number on his back, I call out.
Wait, Number Twelve. Your break’s not over!
But he’s already punching back in.
Which reminds me of my ex-boss. I’m furloughed though, so technically he’s my boss-boss. To his credit, I was the last baker he let go. Even got up the nerve to ask me to help close down, yet never got up the stones to make the move both of us wanted.
Okay, go with it.
The vibrator in my hand clicks on. The head glides down, inside my panties.
This time, when he hugs me good-bye, I reach between us and squeeze the rolling pin in his pants. No apron this time. I’m worried I’m starting to develop a fetish.
His flour covered hands tug at his zipper.
He senses my uncertainty and pauses with questions in his eyes. Why is he looking at me like that? Is it me, am I too fat? Probably gay. The good ones always are. That sure would explain things to my ego about why he never made a move.
Luckily, there’s no H.R. my boudoir.
“No, you don’t. Not this time, Chef Boyardee. Not looking for a marriage proposal. Just close your eyes and climb on top. A little sexy-sex , consider it severance. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”
My curt order is all the direction he needs.
Pants dropped to his ankles, he advances. Enveloped in the scent of freshly baked bread, the grizzly bear of a man overtakes me.
Almost there, my superior is about to take it to the house, dropping salacious whispers in my ear in that fake, fucking, French accent he uses. "Oui. Knead that dough. Get that little pussy nice and wet. I’m going to eat it like a souffle.”
Oh, my God. Heels banging the bed, I’m gibbering about. “The Souffle’s ready Peter, I mean Pierre! Time to eat.”
Right when I’m about to come, the Joy-1000 acts like it’s about to die on me. One hard jerk in my hand, then it starts to sputter. Flailing, I smack the side like a flashlight losing its beam. I’m begging now. “Please finish me off!”
Listening to the alarming chug coming from between my legs, I get greedy. Why not use the most of it? For the first time ever, I increase the speed to two.
No time for tall, dark, floury whatever. I’m in need of confidential and streamlined. Legs spread wide, there’s no beating around the bush. I jump right in. "Oh, God, yes. Right there.”
Pushed to the max. My snarling and snapping vibrator goes rogue.
Zaza-zing!
A surge of electricity whipsaws through me hard enough to arch my back. Shaking, I fall back onto the bed.
What in the world?
That might as well be a stick of dynamite between my legs cause I ain’t moving.
Did I just get electrocuted?
Tiny sizzling aftershocks confirm my suspicions and is that? Smoke I smell?
Before my overgrown bush rages into an inferno, I use two fingers to snatch the convulsing contraption and chuck it across my room. Hyperventilating, I enlist both hands to make sure my pussy’s still attached. Crispy around the edges, but it looks like she’ll make it.
And my heart? Didn’t I read that electricity travels straight through a person? Now that I’ve thought it, the drumbeat in my chest starts to feel erratic. Wouldn’t hurt to break lockdown protocol and go to the E.R. to get checked out. You know, just to be safe.
Okay sure, that’s what I should do.
Uneasy, I wait for the jagged beating to subside. There’s one strong thump, now it’s two. Almost to three when my sanity returns.
Lying in bed with vibrator burns on your thighs. Are you completely mental?
What will I tell the triage nurse? That’s a good question. The only plausible story would be that I tried to catch a speeding bullet between my legs.
Why would you do that?
To save a little kid?
Hmmm. Might raise suspicions. I’m sure the cops will need to be called. Snap a few pics for evidence. They might need pussy prints.
You are not hurt, you’re injured. No witnesses, now suck it up.
The red marks aren’t painful. It’s the slow throb reverberating through my pussy that worries me. Doubt it’s the shock, it’s goes much deeper than that. Pulled from the edge of well-earned and lengthy ecstasy, it’s deprived. My pussy’s pissed. There hasn’t been a pill invented that can help with that.
Joy Repair Page 1