by Alexis Angel
“Hello?” My voice sounds confident. I’m so good at faking it, I almost believe it myself.
“Hey.” His silky smooth voice comes through the speaker clearly. “Is this the hot chick who signed her underwear with lipstick and then tossed them at me?”
I stare at the far wall for a minute. Stone thinks he’s being funny, but I decide to be even funnier.
“Yeah…?” I say, as if hesitating. “Sorry, which one is this?”
“What?” he yelps, all suaveness gone.
Yup, I definitely broke his shell of confidence. I grin to myself and start drawing on the arm of the couch lazily. Really, this is what he gets for waiting a week to call me.
“Well, it’s kinda hard to keep track,” I say innocently. “Now, if you could just describe to me what your cock looks like, that’s how I would best remember which one you are.”
“You want to know what my cock looks like, huh?” he says, and his rumbly deep voice is back. Despite my best intentions, a shiver runs down my spine at his words. “Long—really long, actually.”
“Really long?” I repeat, my voice as breathy as his. I hate myself for that, but I close my eyes, shutting out “Orange is the New Black” and imagine his giant cock in my hands—in my mouth.
Really long is actually an understatement, if we’re being truthful.
“I think some women have even called it massive.” Now we’re getting closer to the truth. “A thick vein runs up the side of it and when I’m really turned on, the head turns this dark purple color, just begging to get inside of your pussy.”
Well, my plan to tease the hell out of him has totally and utterly failed. In just minutes, I’ve gone from having the upper hand, to being this close to begging him to fuck me, and fuck me hard.
This is not how this conversation was supposed to go.
“You really liked running your tongue up the bottom side of my cock, and then playing with the crown of it, if I remember right,” he continues. “You—”
“Hold on, you can’t remember us fucking!” I burst out, and then I hear him laughing. Dammit, he won. I cracked first and admitted I knew who he was.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not used to losing.
“So Gisele,” he says in a normal tone of voice again, “wanna go out with me tonight?”
“I don’t know,” I say in a pouty tone of voice that grates even on my own ears. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I should surprise you. What is your street address?”
Oh fuck!
I get over my prissiness real quick as I realize what his words mean. If he’s going to come over here tonight, I cannot open the door in my PJs, a carton of ice cream in my hand. How pathetic would that be?
As I vault off the couch and begin sprinting through the house, I do my best to keep my voice even as I give him my address. It wouldn’t do to huff and puff in his ear as I run. I begin yanking off my socks, hopping madly toward the bedroom as I go, because dammit it all, I was in the middle of my own pity party and dressed just how I like to attend them. OMG, can you even imagine me opening up the front door wearing Hello Kitty PJs and my warm fuzzy purple socks? I would die. Just die.
“Cool. I’ll see you in fifteen, then,” he says. The phone goes dead and I toss it on my bed while simultaneously tearing through the clothes in my closet. It's time to wow Stone Slayer.
It's time to make him wish I threw my panties at him every night.
134
Stone
My driver pulls up in front of Gisele's apartment building and I tell him it’ll only be a moment as I step out of the stretch limo. Her apartment's … nice. Understated. Not the most glamorous address in the Manhattan phone book, but I’ve certainly seen worse. She's a reporter, not a rock star. It just means that when she does see my apartment, it’ll make an even bigger splash. I cannot wait for her to see the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the City …
I hit the buzzer and I hear, “Hello?”
“It’s Stone,” I say close to the speaker. I feel a little ridiculous; I’m not used to having to ask for entrance like this. Normally I have people who just make doors open for me. It’s their job. But tonight, I want to be just me. Well, me and my driver. Let’s not get crazy.
“Oh, hey!” I hear a buzzing sound. “Come on up.”
I climb the stairs—really, no elevator? She’s going to think my apartment is the epitome of luxury at this rate—and knock on her door. She pulls the door open with a wide, if flustered grin.
“Almost ready!” she says, rushing off to the bathroom, the door slamming closed behind her. I try to hide my laughter until she closes the door behind her, and then I let it all out. She’d just hobbled through the living room with one knee-high boot on … and one foot bare. Likewise, her hair seemed a little more … untamed than normal. Apparently my 15 minutes wasn’t quite long enough for her grooming needs.
But, it was fun to see Gisele rattled. I have to admit, I like having the upper hand.
I wander around the living room, picking up and then putting down picture frames of her and two guys who look enough like her to make me believe that they are siblings. I can hear the water running, then shutting off, some mumbled words that sound suspiciously like a nice long string of swear words, and then a blow dryer turning on.
I know I should probably just sit quietly and wait for her to return, but I can’t. I’m thrumming with excitement and nerves. Just being in Gisele's vicinity makes me feel like I’ve stuck a finger in a light socket. I know I used to do drugs in order to capture this feeling of excitement and thrill whenever I wanted it, but now, having been around Gisele, I realized how fake the drug rush was. Being around Gisele is a thousand times better than that first snort of coke, and a million times better than every snort after that.
There’s a saying that drug addicts are always chasing that first high, because after that, it never feels as good as that first time.
Well, they’ve never met Gisele Taylor. Nothing feels as good as standing next to her.
The bathroom door finally opens, and out spills a cloud of sex and eroticism I never thought I’d encounter. The smell hits me first—sexy and mysterious, with just a hint of roses. I don’t know what perfume that is, but it’s intoxicating.
And while my nose is taking in that amazing smell, my eyes are feasting on her body. Oh God, I’m instantly worried about embarrassing myself in front of her. I can feel myself get hard just from one glance. She has on this amazing dress that I’d only been able to catch a glance of earlier, but now that I can see it …
It’s long, almost to the ground, but there is a slit up the thigh, showing off her fuck-sexy legs that ended in fuck-me black leather boots. The top of her dress, though, is what would win her the Miss USA crown if she were to enter. A halter neckline that plunges down to show off her ample tits, she is no doubt showing off more than most women possess.
I suddenly am not so sure about taking her out on the town. I don’t want any other men to see her body; I want it all for myself. I wonder, again, what it was like to fuck her. I know I’ve done it at least twice now, but the not knowing what it was actually like is slowly starting to make me insane.
I want her lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me down her throat …
I realize that she’s saying something and I’ve missed it all.
“Sorry, what?” I say, tearing my eyes away from her tits, where I’d been busy imagining titty-fucking her. She has the boobs for it, and I can't help but wonder if she’d allow me to. To spray my cum all over her face as I fucked her tits…
“What?” I say again, this time forcing my eyes to stay on her face. I have the sinking realization that I'm not going to make much of a conversationalist out of Gisele tonight, if I can’t stay focused for more than three seconds at a time.
“Do you want to go?” she says slowly, enunciating every word as if I'm a small child with a hearing impairment.
Okay, I deserv
ed that.
“Yes. Let’s,” I say, holding my arm out for her. She slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, and I escort her outside to the waiting stretch limo. I realize that we're parked illegally and no doubt I got a parking ticket or two while waiting for Gisele upstairs, but quite frankly, it was worth every penny, and a whole lot more. My driver, Fred, opens the door for us, helping Gisele in and then shutting the door behind us quietly.
Gisele runs her hands over the leather seats admiringly. “Wow, you travel in style,” she says, a little bit of wonder in her voice.
I strain to keep my eyes on her face, and not just continue to admire her rack. As hard as it is, it’s only polite not to spend the entire evening drooling over my date’s tits.
“Yeah, I don’t always ride in it, of course, but for a night out on the town, it’s a lot of fun.”
Well, I almost sounded normal there. I mentally pat myself on the back for that one, and reward myself by allowing myself to sweep my eyes over her whole body. Reclining against the seat, her legs crossed, her dress showing off her legs to perfection, I have sudden visions of fucking her in the backseat of the limo.
Isn’t that what a limo is for, after all?
“Where are we going?” she asks, breaking into my fantasy.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” I say with a quirk of my lips. “It’s more fun that way.”
Anything to have the upper hand with her. It seems to happen so rarely when I'm around her, I have to take the advantage whenever I can find it.
“Well, I can’t wait to be surprised,” she says softly.
She’s quiet the rest of the way. Sure, she’s talking and smiling, but I can tell she’s thinking about something. She’s tossing the thought around in her head, but not mentioning it for the rest of the ride.
She keeps it quiet even while we sit down to dinner.
It’s partway through dinner before the experimental drug comes up again. “How many other people are taking it?” Gisele asks as we dig into the Kumamoto Bay Oysters.
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” I say. “I know my doctor is overseeing at least three more patients who are taking it, but I don’t know how many other doctors have patients under their supervision. I tried to break my drug and alcohol addiction so many times over the years, and just couldn’t kick it no matter what rehab clinic I enrolled in or what psychologist I saw. This drug, as bizarre as some of its side effects are, has truly changed my life around.”
“Does it bother you that I’m drinking wine?” she asks, holding up her glass of blush wine.
“No, although I’ll tell you now, bourbon is still hard for me to smell. That was always my alcohol of choice, although in the depths of my worst addiction, I’d drink anything you'd hand me. I don’t remember a lot of it, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I was drinking cough syrup or cooking wine.”
“Oh yikes,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me. “That’s nasty.”
“Addicts usually are!” I say cheerfully. I’m not ashamed of my past—it’s made me who I am, even if I have no desire to repeat those years.
Once we finish with our meal, I pull her out onto the dance floor, moving with her to the crooning of the jazz singer and band. She feels right in my arms—more right, more real, than anything I’ve ever had before.
I dip her in my arms, and I hear light applause around us. I look up and realize that we’ve gathered a bit of an audience. I straighten, pulling Gisele upright, and she waves, blushing, as I take her off the dance floor.
We leave the restaurant, out into the crisp night air, and I’m wondering how I can convince her to come back to my place, when she asks, “Want to come back to my apartment?”
“Yes,” I breathe. I want that more than anything.
135
Gisele
As we walk into my apartment, my knees are knocking together. I haven’t been this nervous since George asked me out on a date in seventh grade. I want Stone to fuck me, and this time, I want him to remember me. I have been watching him all evening, and he isn’t high on the experimental drug, at least not that I can see. His eyes are focused, even if they seem to spend most of their time focusing on my tits, and he seems completely aware of his surroundings.
Finally, I’m going to have my night with Stone – not in a bathroom stall, not in a nameless hotel room, but in my apartment, in my bed. I pull him into the house, slamming the door closed behind him, and began pulling at his tux, wanting to rip it off him with my teeth. Stone in a tux is sexier than ten James Bonds put together.
But, he stops me, his hand on my shoulder. Why is he stopping me? I blink, staring up at his face through a haze of red desire.
“Tonight, I finally get to remember you. Tonight, I get to make you mine.”
I nod, trying to keep my mind focused on his words and where he could possibly be going with this, and not focused on getting his cock into my mouth, but I’ll be honest, this was much harder than my Honors English final in 12th grade, and I’d thought that was going to kill me off.
“I want to do this the old-fashioned way.”
That clears a little more of the fog out. That sounds…decidedly un-fun.
“Old fashioned?” I repeat. I’m hoping this doesn’t mean he presses a kiss to my forehead and walks out. Please oh please oh please…
“No penetration tonight. Just you and I, mouths on each other, pleasuring each other. Let’s take it slow.”
Ohhhhhh…this means I do get to put my mouth around that delicious cock of his.
“Deal!” I say and start dragging him towards the bedroom.
Oh yeah, this time around, you’re not following me inside. Not yet. Let me try him out and see how he fucks sober.
Don’t worry, Stone will probably start talking to you right as soon as he wakes up…
136
Stone
I wake up, my arm under Gisele's head, the pins and needles throbbing up and down my arm from it having gone to sleep long ago. I slide my arm out from underneath her, shaking it to get the tingling sensation out, and then grab my phone off the nightstand. I’m awake now; it’s time to see what the world has done without me over the past 12 hours.
I thumbprint my way into my phone and then start flicking through it.
Hold on …
Google Alerts has gone crazy on me. I usually get a few each day, although after my cock-waving move last week, I've certainly gotten a lot more. But this morning …
Well, I’m not going to say that it’s as much as it was last week, but I also don’t know if it’s much less.
Tell-All Blush Magazine Article…
The Internet Goes Crazy With New Revelations…
Is This For Real? Or is Gisele Taylor Trying To Sell Us a Bill of Goods?
My chest hurts, and I think for a moment that I might hyperventilate, but staring at these headlines…
Surely not. Surely this isn’t what I think it is.
It can’t be. Gisele, lying next to me, each breath an adorable little snore; Gisele, dancing in my arms last night; Gisele, cumming in my arms…
Hands trembling, I click on an article at random and start skimming it.
Oh Gisele, how could you?
There, she talks about how I’m taking this experimental drug and how I’m high half the day and how I don’t remember doing things and she’s interviewing doctors about the drug and she’s…
She’s betraying my trust. Every word, every syllable on the page is a betrayal.
I vault out of bed, shoving my feet into my shoes before realizing that I have to put on my socks first, and okay, maybe my boxer briefs and my pants and then my shoes would be helpful and I’m throwing the clothing on, not even caring, just wanting to get out of there, away from the person I had trusted, the one person in the world that I’d told, and who’d broken that trust, who’d taken it and smashed it into smithereens, all to get a story, a headline that no one else could get—Exclusive! Why Stone Slayer Pulled a S
layer (And the Truth on Whether It’ll Happen Again)—and using me, oh God, so calculating and cold. I’m used to people wanting to be close to me because of what they think they can get from me. I’m used to people conniving to be around me so they can get what they want and fuck the rest, but I’d trusted Gisele and I don’t know why.
Magnetism?
Stupid Stone. Stupid, stupid Stone. Trusting a reporter. The most rookie mistake in the book.
And as I’m fleeing the room, I can hear Gisele calling out to me, asking me what’s going on. I must’ve woken her up somewhere along the way, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I have to run and I can’t go back.
My better-than-cocaine Gisele has turned out to be the most destructive force of all.
137
Gisele
Tears are dripping off the end of my nose, which officially makes me the most pathetic Gisele who's ever walked the face of the planet. Here I am with Apollo and Ashley—who I’ve taken to calling Ashlo in my mind because they’re never more than three inches from each other’s sides—and Kathy. We’re at one of the hottest bars in NYC—the Pink Elephant—and I should be laughing and drinking and having a grand ol’ time.
Instead, I’m a mess. Like, a mess.
Have I mentioned that I have tears dripping endlessly off the end of my nose? I think my bourbon is half bourbon, half tears at this point, but I can’t seem to stop.
“What were you thinking?” Kathy asks, unsympathetically. And, not for the first time. She’s asked me some variation on this question three times already. I'll admit that so far, I’ve just been shrugging and bawling harder as my “answer,” so I suppose I deserve this endless string of questioning.
“I thought I was helping!” I wail. A passing waitress pats me on the shoulder consolingly before moving away to serve another customer.