by JA Huss
Copyright © 2014 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-936413-55-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by: RJ Locksley
Formatted by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs
Other Books by J.A. Huss
Losing Francesca
Social Media
Follow
Like
Rook and Ronin
Tragic
Manic
Panic
Rook and Ronin Spinoffs
Slack: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston
Taut: The Ford Book
Ford: Slack/Taught Bundle
Bomb: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike
Guns: The Spencer Book
Dirty, Dark, and Deadly
Come
Come Back
I Am Just Junco
Clutch
Fledge
Flight
Range
The Magpie Bridge
Return
#Women.
I fuck them. I use them. I pay them off. I find another. My demands are never denied. My contracts are always signed. They submit to me. Willingly. Completely. Temporarily. This is how it’s always been.
Until I saw that filthy tweet.
@VaughnAsher My bare pussy. Your tongue. #ThingsIThinkAboutToGetOff
“FilthyBlueBird” thinks she can tease me with hashtags and then hide behind a Twitter handle? She thinks I wouldn’t be more than happy to #RockHerFilthyWorld? She’s wrong.
Her online fantasy is about to collide with her public reality, and it’s about to happen… now.
Chapter One
#HappinessIsADirtyHashtag
SOMETIMES you just need to stop talking, and right now I should totally take that advice because the airport bartender is giving me that look as I chatter away about nothing in particular. Bebe is in the bathroom freshening up before we make the final leg of our journey to spend four days and three nights on Saint Thomas courtesy of KFLK radio in Denver.
My mouth is still going and even though no one is paying any attention to me, I can’t stop talking and they all start shooting me looks. I get these looks a lot. I can’t stand silence, it drives me crazy. So I’m a talker. I’m a gabber. I’m what they call… social. I pin things, I share things, I plus things. I like, I follow, and I comment.
But most of all… I tweet. I’m a tweeter. I live for the Twitter. I chirp good morning like a little blue bird from my bed in the AM and then chirp good evening again every night.
Even before social media took over the world I was this girl. From my very first year I have been one of those butterflies. Yes—I’m putting my hand up to stop the protests—my very first year. Because my first birthday picture was of me whispering a secret into my big brother’s ear.
And after social media took over the world I embraced this girl. My bestie, Bebe, and I have this whole social thing down to a science. We are the champions of chatter, the proponents of prattle, the backers of blather. We are the goddesses of gossip and we own this shit. We take bubbly optimism to a whole new virtual level. Our motto is Happiness is a #Hashtag and we live life knowing the fairy tale is possible, even if you only get it online.
Who needs reality anyway? Reality is being orphaned at thirteen. Reality is foster homes and loneliness. Reality is a risk ripe for disappointment.
But thank God for Bebe and her family. They welcomed me in with open arms and instead of something tragic, I became the poster child for surviving and came out the other end not only intact, but better than ever.
But back to my mouth—and by extension, my fingertips since they do all my talking on Twitter—it has a mind of its own.
And that mind is very dirty.
Yes, my name is Grace Kinsella and I’m a filthy tweeter.
I can turn a hundred and forty characters into living sex. I can string words together in a way that will make you wet your panties with lust. I can make a man blush before he even gets to the hashtag. I am famous for pithy filth.
In fact, my girlfriends and I have an online Facebook group called the Filthy Blue Birds. And we’re not the only ones. The world of pithy filth is booming, friends. There are endless groups like ours. There are legions of shy girls who come alive when faced with the hundred-and-forty-character challenge. And there is a very special place online where we meet, challenging each other to achieve a new level of smexy typing.
I call that Twitter list Dirty Heaven. I made it up, like literally I’m the freaking founder. So Dirty Heaven is my kingdom and I’m the queen.
I’ll stop here to take a bow.
Besides being a list, Dirty Heaven is an online competition that happens on Twitter every Saturday night across the world—yes, we have filthy tweeters from all walks of life. At 8 PM Eastern the FT’s come alive and each league puts up their best and brightest. You get one tweet, one hashtag, and one chance to shine.
I don’t win anymore, it’s simply not fair. I’m now the judge. But back when we were first putting this together my tweets took me to Dirty Heaven time after time after time. That’s back when we used to have the competitions nightly and the group was small. Just fifteen or twenty of my closest online stranger friends. Each competition we had an online muse and we took turns choosing who would benefit from our blush-inducing prose. Sometimes the girls picked models or rock stars.
I only ever had one muse and his name is Vaughn Asher.
Yes, the Vaughn Asher. A Hollywood legend. He started out in the boy band 2 Far Out, then when his angelic voice changed as he hit puberty he graduated into Disney sitcoms. Most child actors would fade after that, never able to make the transition. But Vaughn Asher doubled down on the workouts—gaining the title of Most Envied Body in Hollywood six years in a row from Buzz Hollywood Magazine—and the preteen wannabe turned into an action-hero heartthrob overnight.
Just thinking his name makes me sigh. He’s so freaking gorgeous. That messy dark hair that makes him look like he just rolled out of bed. Those tight abs that just make you want to drag your tongue all over them to see if they taste as good as they look. And that package, boy. He’s never done any nudes so I have to use my imagination, but my imagination is vivid. I have a very clear picture.
Besides, you know what they say about a man’s thumbs, right? Well, Vaughn Asher has incredible thumbs. And large feet. They say that too.
Yes, doing filthy things to his six-foot-two frame has been my idea of Dirty Heaven for almost three years now. I’d like to say I’ve said everything imaginable about him, but that’s not true. I never run out of ideas. It’s like my brain only exists to compose a one-hundred-and-forty-character sentence that will turn him red.
That’s my fantasy. That’s my fairy tale. Vaughn Asher doing things to me that can only be said in a hashtag.
Chapter Two
#ThanksForTheFuck
“I’M afraid you’re going to have to leave,” I tell the dark-haired beauty crawling towards me on the floor of my suite.
Her mouth drops open and she stops crawling, but my attention is on her hair. It’s dragging across the floor and picking up dust. I need to speak to the maids about the dust.
“What?” she asks, as she goes from crawling to kneeling. That has got to hurt her knees. Pressing against tile like that. “Did I do something wrong?”
She’s almost perfect. Almost being the key word. She’s very tall and thin, the physique of a model, really. Willowy is the word to describe her. All arms and legs.
Small breasts, but they are nice enough. As is her ass. She’s obedient. But—
“I can change, whatever it is. I can change.”
I sigh. I hate having to dismiss the girls. It bothers me when I have to spell it out. I always tell them before we start, this is nothing but sex. But they only hear what they want to hear. Something akin to This is more than sex, I want you by my side forever? Maybe. I’m not sure. Whatever they hear, it’s not, Thanks for the good time, now get the hell out, because that’s what my mind is saying.
“You can keep your job here at the resort. In fact, I’ll still pop in for yoga every now and then, if that’s OK.”
“Just tell me what I did. I’ll fix it.”
“I’ll include a bonus in your next check if it dulls the sting.”
“I didn’t tell anyone about you, Master.”
“I know. You did everything right.” They never just take the money and leave. Ever. They never make it easy for me.
“Then why? Can’t I ask why? Don’t I deserve an explanation?” She’s on her feet now, walking towards me.
I put up a hand and she stops. “I don’t like you. It’s that simple.” I stand up and walk towards her so she can’t take control. Her doe eyes look up at me, pleading. But my decision has been made. I’m done. I cup her face and stare down at her. “You’re simply not perfect. And that’s all there is to it. Your imperfections are glaring. It was nice fucking you. Good luck and goodbye.”
Chapter Three
#NotPrinceCharming
I SCAN the guests as they pull up to the resort valet. Most are family. We have a huge family. I have seven aunts and uncles on my father’s side alone. And my mother is a twin and has two older sisters. Every one of them has at least three children.
Sending that girl away this morning is still a flicker of irritation in the back of my mind. She has no room to complain. They never have any room to complain when I dismiss them. But they always do.
Some of them want the fame, I suppose. As if I’d ever take one of my submissive playthings out in public as my girlfriend. I laugh at that as I watch my family pour out of the limos down below. These silly girls and their fantasies. I’ve had so many of them over the years and not one ever made it to an event on my arm. You’d think they’d pick up on that, but they don’t. They always assume they are the first for some reason. The Prince Charming complex, maybe. I’m their savior. They all think money is the answer, but money is the devil. Money is the problem. Money is never enough.
It takes them a while to realize this, but they all realize it eventually. This last one I’m not so sure about. One night was all it was ever meant to be. She must’ve been craving it. That slave-master relationship. Either that or she’s been in one before, because she was ready and willing to do everything I commanded.
I feel sorry for her, but when I’m done, I’m done. And she was never my type anyway, she was just here. She was a shrug. An afterthought. A side dish. She never came close to girlfriend material.
No. The subs are never girlfriend material. They are toys. And maybe all the women I date are toys, to some extent. But none of the women I date publicly get their asses spanked red or their hair pulled as I fuck them from behind.
I crave the dirty, but only in private.
My thumb rubs circles over my brow as I desperately try to ease the tension from having to spell it out for her. Why can’t they just stick to the agreement? Why do they always have to stick around afterward, forcing me to humiliate them further in the stark glare of morning daylight?
A van pulls up and I stop the introspection to observe. A van? Who in my family is arriving in an airport shuttle?
The side door slides open and two girls are inside. They are smiling and giggling. One is dark—in fact, she reminds me of that dismissed sub. But the other… I stop and catch my breath as she places one sandaled foot outside the vehicle and steps into the tropical sun. The driver doesn’t even get out to help them with their luggage, just accepts the payment and drives off as soon as the door closes.
The girls stare up at the resort and I duck a little, making sure they don’t spot me spying. “Vaughn,” I chastise myself. “Get a grip.”
They disappear inside and I’m left thinking about the girl with the blonde hair. She was pretty. Is she a guest for the party? I get out my cell and call the front desk. Javel picks up on the first ring.
“Who are those two women checking in?”
“Excuse me, ladies, I have to take this call,” he says. A few seconds later a door closes and he’s back. “I’m sorry, sir, they were on the approved list. They are…” He hesitates and I get a little annoyed at him making me wait.
“They’re who?” I prod.
“Honeymooners. I was told not to cancel the honeymooners.”
“OK, thank you.” I end the call.
Hmmm. I keep my eye on them.
I PASS the evening drinking alone in what I call the Crow’s Nest. It’s a small alcove separate from the upstairs bar that looks down onto the front of the resort. It’s almost midnight before I make it back to my house. I strip out of my clothes and dive into the pool. The crash of waves filters up from the beach that’s less than a hundred yards down a pebble-covered path.
I want to fuck someone so bad. I need to bend the will of a new submissive and I need to do that soon.
Chapter Four
#SurpriseMe
JUST so you understand, my hashtag brilliance doesn’t come quick and easy. It takes me some time to come up with just the right tweet. I completely understand that Mr. Asher’s time is valuable and that’s why I take such care in my composition.
@VaughnAsher My fantasy: The soft tropical breeze caressing my bare pussy right now is really your invisible tongue on my clit.
He played the Invisible Man in that last superhero movie, get it? I chuckle softly to myself as I sit at the resort bar. Bebe and I are on our fake honeymoon. It’s a long story, but she won this trip for two to Saint Thomas in a contest and since neither of us plan on getting married anytime soon, we came together.
Her new boyfriend Steve showed up last night as a surprise and since I’m not a bitch, I told her to go have fun with him. He should’ve been the one here with her anyway, but I’ve never been to the Caribbean, so Bebe took me instead.
Anyway, back to my tweet. I still have a few characters left and it kills me not to use them all, so I ponder it a little more as I swing my foot to the bar music. Saint Thomas is a fantastic place. The beaches are lined with spectacular white sand and the water is a color of blue that I just can’t describe. Our hotel is fabulous—way, way, way out of my price range—but since the contest was a honeymoon package, we have to share a bed. And now that her boyfriend Steve decided to join us, well, I’ll probably be sleeping on the beach tonight because the rattan couch on the bungalow patio has my back all in a crick.
Not that I care too much that Steve is here. It takes a lot to get me riled up. I’m the kind of girl who lets things go. Steve is OK and Bebe has always been so good to me, so a night on a tropical beach is hardly a sacrifice so they can share the room and have some real privacy in paradise.
“Another drink?” the bartender asks me as he strolls by to check on this end of the bar. There’s no one over here but me, so that’s sweet that he’s paying attention. Of course my bikini top is pretty small so maybe he’s just trying to cop a look at my girls?
“Yes, please,” I say as I continue to play around with my phone. “I want another martini, but this time”—I look up and bat my blue eyes at the dark, handsome man pouring drinks today—“surprise me.”
“How about I pick?” a rough, sexy voice asks over my shoulder. “Let the lady try the key lime pie.”
“Hmmm.” I hum to myself as I continue to rearrange today’s perfect dirty tweet so I get the hashtag in just the right place. “Thanks a bunch. But lime is not my thing, so”—I look up at the bartender who’s got his eyebrows raised to the ceiling as he wait
s for my response—“I’ll let you choose.” I give the hot bartender a flirty wink and he lets off a hearty laugh.
“You sure about that?” he asks in his Caribbean English. “Maybe the lime is not so bad.”
“Oh, no.” I put up my hand and laugh with him. “I’m sure.” I hike my thumb back over my shoulder. “Mr. Buttinski here can order himself a key lime pie martini. I want you to choose”—I look at the name tag on his resort shirt—“Dewain.” I smile at him and then go back to my tweet, the matter settled.
“Have it your way, but I think I tried them all last night and this one is definitely the best. And I only bother with the best,” that husky voice replies behind me. He reaches over my shoulder, pressing his body up against mine in a way that creates an explosion of chills down my arms, and then places a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “It’s on me.”
I swivel around on my bar stool to see who this guy is, but he’s already turned away, so all I catch is a muscled back. It’s tan. And hard-looking. My eyes travel south to the curve of his perfect globes. He’s wearing a pair of lime green board shorts and that makes me smile.
“Nice shorts,” I call out after him.
He glances over his shoulder and I catch a smirking grin before he rounds the corner and calls back, “Nice tweet.”
“Oh, shit,” I mumble to myself. I click out of the app and blush. “How embarrassing.” At least he couldn’t see my Twitter handle and Mr. Asher’s handle was mostly covered up by my thumb, so he probably didn’t see who it was for, either. “Eek!” I say under my breath. I hope I don’t see him again.
“There you are!” Bebe says as she skips under the thatched-roof hut of the beach bar. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”