by Aven Jayce
“Fuck,” I groan.
“Give me your hot cum.”
I’m panting, getting nearer, shouting ‘fuck,’ holding her head in my hands and... tightening... clenching... now slowing...
I pull out and tug the condom off just a moment before my cum lands on her tit. With the covers thrown behind us, I watch an explosion of fluid batter her chest as a release gushes from my swollen tip. A sensual smile plasters her face when she rubs my gift over her torso and licks it from below her lip. Good, it hit her in the face.
“Hell,” I huff. “Oh fuck... fuck...” I collapse over her, capturing another kiss while our chests pound into one another. “Damn, that was good... I’m so glad... my cock decided to work again,” I wheeze. “That was…
“Wow.”
“Wow, yeah. I know. I can’t catch my breath... that was a head spinner... man, so good.” I look at her with a giant grin. “You know,” I exhale. “I hate that I feel this way. I hate you for doing this to me.”
“Thanks, you too.” She taps my cheek with the palm of her hand then pushes me off the bed.
I get up and grab a towel to wipe my stomach and dick before tossing the cum covered cloth on her chest.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asks.
“That was it.” I spread out next to her with my hand behind my head and stare at my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “I needed my dick inside of you... again. What a great night,” I utter, finally catching my breath. “Chicken, wine, and pussy.”
“Yes, cock, wine, and more cock for me.” She pats my leg then walks toward the bathroom. “Can I turn on some music after I freshen up? I like to listen to it when I fall asleep.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine.” She places her hand on her hip. “I can just go back to my suite if you want.”
“Uh, if you insist.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant you can go back to your suite.” I joke.
“I guess you can keep me in a separate room forever.” She disappears behind the door and then calls out, “what time is it?”
“Only ten,” I shout, noticing a text message from my son. I hope I didn’t hit his contact number when Jules and I were fucking. I’d hate for my kid to... nope, his text says I’m a bastard for forgetting his birthday.
“Shit!” I sit up.
“What’s wrong?” She opens the door and looks at me curiously.
I step hastily into my boxers. “I’ll be right back. I need to call my son.”
“Isn’t it like midnight in Philly?”
“He’s awake. Trust me.”
I walk down to my office, which is directly below my bedroom, and take a seat in the cold leather chair. For Christ’s sake, I’m in for an earful. I place the call and begin a nervous swiveling movement while I wait to hear his voice.
“Hey, Jack, Happy...”
“Fuck off, Dad, you asshole. Why even bother calling at this point? You’re nothing but lowlife scum. I hope you rot in hell!”
I sigh and my son sighs back.
“What? A fucking sigh? That’s what you give me?” he fumes. “Let me guess, you were too busy fucking some whore to remember me, right? That’s what Mom said and I bet she was right.”
“Jackie boy...”
“Don’t fucking call me that! I’m not three! It’s Jack! Just Jack! I hate you!”
“Calm the fuck down.”
“No! How could you forget about me again? And where the fuck’s my money!”
“Enough! I’m sorry. I have a card on the way with some cash.”
“Yeah, the check’s in the mail. Bullshit.”
“Son, tell me what you need.”
“I can’t stand that title either. Just call me by my name, alright? Son sounds creepy, like you actually love me or something.”
“Listen, kid. I am your father.” Our conversations are always the same and I’ll call him whatever the fuck I want. Like ‘little prick’ or ‘little shit.’ “Did you have a nice birthday? You doing okay?”
“My birthday was tight, thanks to Mom, not you.”
I hear my ex-wife in the background and his cell goes mute. When he returns, he gives me more shit. Damn, I should’ve remembered his issues with profanity when I was being hard on my sister about her kids using the word fuck. She’s right. This is an issue and I’m the worst role model when it comes to language - and other things.
“Listen... no Jack... would you... I... calm yourself... cut the shit!” I finally shout. “Damn it, you’re like my clone.”
“Screw you. If you knew anything about me you’d never say that!”
He’s at that age where he’s rebelling against his parents, well, me at least. I don’t know what he’s like with his mother. His language is what I’d expect to hear from prison inmates. My friends and I were the same way when I was a kid, only with each other, not in front of adults. But, that’s just it. I haven’t been a father to him and he treats me more like a person his age than someone he can look up to and respect.
“When we can have a peaceful conversation, I want to discuss the holidays with you. It’s time for you to visit.”
“Ha,” he huffs. “What? Are you insane? I’m not leaving my friends to stay in a shitty hotel room in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“This is a five star hotel. You’ll be able to swim and ski.”
“Fuck no.”
“Jack.”
“I’m so angry with you right now!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough, Dad.”
“I’ll pay for your friends to come along.”
“Yeah, if I bring my girlfriend, I bet you won’t allow her to stay in my room.”
Jesus. “That’s correct, I won’t. How... you know, you’re way too young for that kind of play.”
“Hypocrite! That’s bogus bullshit! You’re just trying to buy my love with that idea anyway. I’m not stupid.”
He’s right. Throwing money his way is how I show him that I care, but it’s not really out of love, it’s just to put a goddamn pacifier in his mouth and to get him here.
“I’m not being hypocritical. I’m telling you that you’re too young to share a room with a girl. You’re not even legally old enough to drive.” I lean forward and rest my chin in the palm of my hand. A photo of him from when he won his first karate trophy sits next to my laptop and another photo of the two of us on the Vegas strip is on a shelf above. “What’s the girl’s name?”
“Maria, and she’s hotter than any bitch you’ve ever been with.”
I toss my head back and exhale. My son’s a rotten fucker, and at this moment, I’m not okay with taking the blame for screwing this kid up. Sophia’s children seem like saints after dealing with this crap. And Cove’s right, Dax and Xav are just little boys.
“Why don’t you send me a couple grand this year to make up for being such a shitty father?”
I laugh. “You’ll get the usual. Now put your mother on the line, would you?”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. You know, I don’t want to talk to you anymore tonight anyway. You’re a dipshit.”
“Call me that again and I’ll send someone to your house to smack you upside the head.”
“Yeah, that’s right, cuz you can’t come out here yourself.”
“You know...” I exhale, again. I do that often when the two of us speak. “You’re going to inherit this hotel one day, it’d be nice if you could come out so we can talk to one another face-to-face instead of shouting over the phone. Think about it. I’m not the one against us having a relationship.”
“What? Hell no. You’re not sticking me with that thing. You pocketed a ton of money when you left Vegas. Give me that, not the hotel. When are you kicking the bucket anyway?”
Christ. That was a telling reaction. No response to us working on being father and son, all he mentioned was my money.
A thought flashes through my head of my son cut
ting me in half with one of his swords. If things continue as they are, I could see that actually happening one day. That’s terrible, I know, but everyone has wicked thoughts now and again and my son really knows how to stir them in my head.
I need to get those weapons away from him now that he’s losing control. He started collecting swords when he was in his pre-teen pirate phase. It was cute at the time, like you’d picture a child from the ‘50s dressing up in a cowboy outfit and shooting his BB gun at neighborhood squirrels, only Jack used to slice and dice cacti in Vegas with his Authentic Pirate Cutlass. That chapter in his life was short-lived and a year later he decided he would rather be a ninja, so I got him an assassin short sword which my ex bitched about because he kept ‘surprising’ her with it in the house. He’s quite sneaky. And now, now the little twerp talks about killing zombies, something I know nothing about. I bought him a ‘zombie gutter’ last Christmas, like he asked. It’s much shorter than the other swords and is something I’d probably enjoy using myself, only I’m not a teenager obsessed with the dead, or the living dead, or whatever he imagines them to be.
Jack’s always been civilized with the weapons, displaying them in his bedroom more than putting them to any real use, but I’m beginning to worry as he gets older that his behavior could change. Hell, his behavior is changing. Something I didn’t think all that much about until now. I guess someday I’ll receive the Most Asinine Parent of the Year Award.
“I’m really sorry, Jack. I’ll make it up to you some day, but not with money.”
“Is your cell next to your ass? Cuz those words aren’t coming out of your mouth.”
“Put your mother on the fucking phone and have a fun-fucking-tastic birthday, you little prick.”
He hangs up and I immediately call their landline, but he hangs up a second time. I try my ex’s cell and thankfully, she picks up after a few rings.
“I can’t believe you forgot to wish him a happy birthday, Mark. That was one of the most inconsiderate things you’ve ever done.”
“We need to discuss getting him some help.”
“Why? Because he hurt your feelings? Boohoo. Look, he’s a good kid who stays out of trouble and has high grades. I’m not concerned...”
I laugh. “Did you hear what he said to me?” I know she did. “He needs to show a little respect.”
“Says the man who didn’t remember his own son’s birthday. You’re the only person he uses that language with and seriously, can you blame him? You’re the one who needs some therapy, not my son.”
“Our son.”
“My son!”
“Mark? Do you have any...” Jules pokes her head in my office, but stops when she sees I’m on the phone. “Oh, sorry.”
“Wow, that one sounds young,” my ex says. “A blonde with big tits, right?”
“Stay out of my private life.”
“And you stay out of ours!” She ends the call in haste.
“Uh,” I grumble. “What did you need?” I spin in my office chair to face her and see her hand is raised for me to follow her back upstairs.
“Everything okay?” she inquires on our way to my bedroom, her ass still red from my belting before dinner and in need of attention.
“Fine.”
“I came down for ice, but you don’t have any in your freezer.”
“This is a hotel. You know there’s an ice machine in the hallway.”
“I didn’t feel like getting dressed.”
“You need it for you ass?”
She nods and tries to turn far enough to see the area then looks at it in my full-length mirror. “It’s been throbbing, you brute.”
“I’m not sorry.”
“I don’t need an apology, I want you to fix it. Or kiss it.”
“No.” I step into my bathroom, looking for some lotion. “I think I’ve kissed your ass enough over the past couple of days. Is that why you wanted the ice?”
“Yes.”
“A warm bath would be better than ice cubes. How about some Dream Cream instead? I use it for sunburn,” I say, reading the label. “It’s supposed to be good for irritated skin.”
She lies on her stomach and rests her head on the pillow, waiting for me to spread it on.
“Seriously? You want me to pamper you?”
“Yep,” she says, short of hesitation. “A man who pampers himself with something called Dream Cream should be able to pamper his woman too.”
“Fuck.”
“Please?” she whines.
I sit next to her and cake it on. “Don’t turn over. I don’t want it all over my sheets.”
“But the crusty cum I’m laying on is okay?”
I ignore her as I massage the lotion gently over the red marks. It looks worse now than it did earlier. I really need to stop being such a hard ass to her soft ass.
She has such beautiful skin. One small mole is on her left cheek, but no other marks, scars or even a slight discoloration can be seen anywhere.
“It rubs the lotion on its skin,” I whisper.
She’s quiet for a moment then groans. “Oh god, Mark, please. No horror movie references tonight, okay? I’ve had enough of that shit for a while.”
I move closer to her ear and say in my deepest, eeriest voice, “it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.”
She laughs, kicking her feet against the mattress. “Stop it! Silence of the Lambs was horrifying.”
I continue caressing her soft flesh, moving up her back, all the way to her neck.
“Oh, and hey,” she turns her head, looking back at me, “why is all your music so old school? Haven’t you updated your iPod in like the past ten years?”
“Funny.” I smack her ass, causing her to shudder. “You didn’t look at my playlists.” I stand, needing to change what she has on. “There’s no way I can fall asleep to this, it’s too heavy. If we have to listen to music, at least let me put on Norah Jones.”
“Norah? Men don’t listen to her. Did your last girlfriend put her on there for you?” she laughs.
“I haven’t had any girlfriends since my divorce,” I remind her, turning off the light and spreading out on the bed.
“Yeah, I forgot... you know, Norah’s another oldie.”
“Shut up about the music, Jules, or I’ll just turn it off. You didn’t need it to fall asleep yesterday and I’m sure you weren’t playing it every night in your car.”
She’s silent, but only for a minute, as usual. “You forgot your son’s birthday?”
“I’d rather talk about music.”
I pull the comforter over our legs and stare into the darkness, the only light coming from my stereo. With my hand resting on Jules’ warm back, I can feel her slow breathing. She’s relaxed and seems happy, which makes me happy.
“You’re shutting down on me again,” she whispers. “I’m trying to start a conversation about something other than sex.”
I feel filthy, but I’m too damn tired to shower after a day of cleaning my boat, talking to my staff and other work related business, two rounds of pussy, and the argument with my son.
“Are you ignoring me?”
My free hand massages the stubble along my chin as I think of what needs to be accomplished tomorrow morning before the massive influx of guests arrive for the marathon.
“I guess you are.”
It’s going to be a busy day and this place will be packed. I’m sure a few people will try to crowd into the rooms in order to save money.
“If I sigh really loud will you talk to me?”
That’s pretty normal when big events like this one take place in town. The Jazz Festival each year is the worst in terms of the drunken unruly sorts. These athletic types aren’t as bad. Hell, either way, a packed hotel brings in a shitload of money, especially in the evening when people crowd the hotel bar.
“I love how easy it is for you to snub me,” she says.
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
The room’s cold tonight. I pull the comforter further up, trying not to smear the lotion off her ass. I have a lot of laundry to do soon.
“Do you do laundry?” I ask.
“What the fuck, Mark? No. That’s what’s on your mind? Fucking laundry?”
“You’ve got to think about it sometime.”
“Argh, come on. What goes through that head of yours? You must be thinking about other things.”
“Nope. I’m a shallow bastard, just like you mentioned at dinner.”
“So that’s it? I was right when I asked what you guys do for fun and no one answered. Everybody ignored me because there isn’t anything?”
I feel like being a total dick. She knows that’s not true. “I like money, pussy, and more money, then more pussy. Toss some liquor into that mix as well. Those are the best things in life.”
A melodramatic sigh fills the room causing me to laugh. “Those items are high on my list, but I have a few other amusements in my life. You know? And I do think about other things, only most aren’t all that pleasant. My father and my brother-in-law are always circling inside my head, but I’m not going to discuss my thoughts about them with you. It’s private. Also, when I say I enjoy pussy, I’m referring to being with you, and not just to fuck. I plan on keeping you around for as long as possible, but when I get tired of you, I’ll bury you under a layer of cement in my garage like my father used to do with his ‘objects.’”
She kicks me and makes another dissatisfied grumbling sound. “Good, now I’m an object. I guess that’s a step up from being a pussy.”
I was hoping I didn’t need to say how much I enjoy being with her like I did earlier; she already knows I want her in my life. Women don’t need to hear loving crap vomiting from a man’s mouth all the time. Yes, loving crap. Those two words can, and do, go together. And that’s as intimate as I’m going to get right now, considering the mood I’m in after speaking to Jack. Besides, women fall for men who are dark and sinister over the pansy types who bring flowers, or worse, romantic greeting cards home. A woman will toss the latter by the wayside.
“I love you too,” she whispers.
“That’s not what I said a moment ago.”